


The Fundamentals of Being Human

by Gambitgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Badass Castiel, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bunker Sex, Castiel in the Bunker, Frottage, Grumpy Castiel, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, Hunter!Cas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Men of Letters Bunker, Overprotective Dean, Pining Dean, Post Season 8, Slow Build, Slow Burn, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:14:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 112,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gambitgirl/pseuds/Gambitgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel tries to tackle his new humanity in an orderly way. Food, clothing, shelter, etc. There's so much more to learn than he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Hungry?

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This fic takes place after the Season 8 finale. I'm just terribly interested in how Castiel would try to tackle being human for good, so I wanted to do a detailed study. To focus on that exclusively I've elected not to address the other angels, Metatron, Sam's trials, etc., basically all of Season 9.
> 
> Suffice it to say, in this fic, all the angels fell as Anna did originally, into newborns with no recollection of their former existence. Heaven proceeds apace, even if Metatron is running it, and Sam's refusal to complete the trials left him...fine. Yes, it's quick and sloppy but that's the prerogative of being the author ;)

It was the first and most obvious change, Castiel’s interest in food. Sure, Dean and Sam had seen him eat before when he was angel-ed up, sometimes trying food for the sake of appearances, sipping coffee to do something with his hands while occupying a diner seat, choking down burgers in the low hundreds when Famine ensnared him.

This was different. Castiel was equally fascinated and irked by his now entirely human body’s demands for sustenance. 

“I never realized just how time consuming eating and drinking was,” he complained around a mouthful of cereal. 

“Cas,” Sam said gently, “It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

“Dean does it,” the former angel pointed out, using his spoon to gesture at the elder Winchester’s position by the coffee maker in the bunker kitchen.

Dean’s gave his floppy haired brother smug grin until Sam said, “Yeah, well, Dean does a lot of gross shit. He’s hardly the standard you should measure your own humanity against.”

“Hey!” Dean snapped. “Cas, don’t listen to him or you’ll wind up running out of room for all your beauty products.” Sam’s bitchface bounced right off him because he was right. No one needed that much shampoo, no matter how hard they tried to be Rapunzel.

Castiel’s eyes slid between the two brothers, looking a bit conflicted. “So…I should listen to you on hygiene.” His spoon wagged in Dean’s direction. “And Sam about food.”

“Yes,” Sam said immediately.

“Hell no!” Dean protested. “He’ll make you eat rabbit food. You’re not a rabbit, you’re a GUY. And guys eat red meat.”

Castiel chewed his next mouthful slowly, keeping Sam’s admonition about table manners in mind while also considering if he preferred these Honey Nut Cheerios to the plain Cheerios he had yesterday. Definitely the Honey Nut. 

Once he swallowed he felt free to respond, “I’m not really a guy.” The baffled looks the Winchesters exchanged let him know he needed to clarify. “Alright, physically I suppose I am now, but does perception of my gender really have any impact on my food preferences?”

The expression on Sam’s face was familiar; it was the one that usually preceded the man correcting Castiel while trying not to look too amused at the fallen angel’s ineptitude. “Dean’s a sexist pig, ignore him, Cas. Eat whatever tastes good to you.”

“Honey Nut Cheerios,” the dark haired man intoned gravely before scooping more into his mouth.

Dean rolled his eyes and plunked down coffee for the three of them then watched, curious, as Castiel drew his mug towards himself and cocked his head to one side. For the last 3 mornings, since he’d arrived at the bunker post-fall, Castiel had been experimenting with how he liked his coffee 

The weeks of homelessness he’d endured on his way back to the Winchesters had forced him to eat and drink whatever was available. Mostly water and things pilfered from the trash, sometimes when he found change chips from a vending machine. Now that Castiel had the security of the brothers and the stability of their home and food supply at his disposal, the fallen angel applied himself to learning how to be human with single minded determination, as though he were studying for an exam.

His first morning in the Men of Letters bunker he automatically took his coffee black, like the brothers. After two swallows he shocked them by rejecting it out of hand as too bitter despite taking it that way for years as an angel.

“I did it because you two did. I couldn’t really taste it. Not in a manner you’d understand,” he tried to explain when both Sam and Dean protested that black was the best way to take it. They were surprisingly passionate about the subject.

“So break it down it in a way we will understand, Cas,” Dean demanded. Sam had his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive manner, the brothers for once united in solidarity against Castiel’s clearly incorrect stance on caffeinated beverages.

The ex-angel’s face clouded over as he considered how best to relate the experience. “When I smelled it I couldn’t separate the actual odor my vessel’s nose took in from the chemical compounds that composed it. When drinking coffee the chlorogenic acid lactones and their molecular structure superseded any perception of taste.”

The Winchesters had shared a look that spoke silent volumes, the height of raised eyebrows and the depth of the furrows between them a language in which the Winchesters were fluent.

“Parts got in the way of the sum,” Sam finally managed to translate. 

Dean’s mouth popped in an “O” of understanding before he shook his head and muttered “angels” under his breath, as though that summed up everything inexplicable about Castiel. 

Thus began Castiel playing with his food at every meal.

This morning the elder Winchester watched as the ex-angel carefully measured a level spoonful of sugar into his coffee before adding Half and Half slowly. Plain milk was unsatisfactory and full cream was too rich, according to the apparently picky new human. Castiel took a sip then rolled the brew in his mouth, a pensive look on his face as he analyzed the taste and carefully weighed it again his currently small store of personal opinions on food and drink.

Sam took the bait. “Verdict?”

“I think I’ve found a ratio of coffee to creamer to sweetener I like.” He sipped and nodded again in confirmation.

“Look at him, Sammy, growing up so fast.” Dean pretended to wipe away a tear.

Castiel didn’t have to wait to be human to grasp that Dean often mocked him. Back then it didn’t rankle him quite the way it did these days. 

“You’ve had a lifetime to learn your tastes and preferences, Dean. I’m trying to be thoughtful about developing mine,” he grumbled, one arm circling his bowl of cereal again as if to prevent anyone from taking it. A habit he’d picked up in his several weeks half starving and on the move that he’d yet to shake.

“Screw that, sometimes you just have to go with your gut,” Dean insisted. “Literally in this case, Cas. You just like what you like; it doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“I actually agree with Dean on this,” Sam chimed in, his tone making it sound like he rarely agreed with his brother when Castiel knew the opposite to be true. 

Well mostly true. Half the time, at least. Okay, 37% if he had to be precise.

“You just need to try a lot of stuff and roll with it. It’s not the Last Supper…or breakfast. Don’t take it so seriously.” Dean nodded vigorously in agreement with Sam. Although the brothers were often at odds, on the topic of Castiel learning to be human they were in the same book if not on the same page.

Dean’s hand slapped the table in front of him, as though delivering judgment from the bench. “Exactly. Enough of this cold cereal and take out. Cas, I’m going to make dinner, and you’ll understand what we’re talking about. Once you have one of my burgers you’ll-“

“Hey,” Sam protested, “Don’t think you’re going to drag him over to the Dark Side of the food pyramid.” He gave Castiel an appraising look. “I’ll make something not smothered in cheese and grease. Unlike my caveman brother, you’ll figure out eating right tastes damn good too.”

“My burgers are NOT greasy, Bitchsquatch!” Dean blustered. “You take that back!” The finger he stuck in his brother’s face was slapped away.

Castiel picked up his bowl and mug as he moved from the table. No point in his perfect cup of coffee getting knocked over as the brothers practically tackled each other in a fight for meal dominance.

Banished from the kitchen by the Winchesters that evening, Castiel seated himself at a table in the library, two tomes open in front of him as he continued the translation he’d started the day before. He couldn’t smite, heal, or fly but he was determined to prove he was still useful to the brothers. The books in the Men of Letters' archives were fascinating; and their value to the hunters would be incomparable once they were in English. Thankfully, although his grace was gone, his eidetic memory was still flawless as was his grasp of every language, currently used and long dead. 

They couldn’t possibly turn him out if he proved how valuable a resource he could be, even if it was just as a researcher. He'd never be Bobby Singer, but if he managed to be even fractionally as helpful as their departed father figure Castiel thought it would be a worthwhile endeavor.

His scratched out a line of transcribed Aramaic and rewrote it in a less flowery way, less metaphorical and more direct. A gryphon summoning should focus on precise ritualistic actions, sigils, and ingredients, not wax philosophical between instructions. However, there may be some value in the prose, so he’d make a footnote with instructions to turn to the new appendix he’d create for such information.

He reached for another piece of paper to start said appendix when a loud “Damnit!” burst from the kitchen. “Dean, that’s really childish!”

Castiel raised his head as the younger Winchester strode into the library with a bowl above his head, clearly trying to keep it out of his brother's reach. The new human couldn’t help the upward tug of one side of his mouth as Dean hopped a bit to try to smack Sam’s arm, presumably to knock the bowl to the ground and spoil Sam’s contribution to dinner. He stopped once he realized his “little” brother was tall as a redwood and the endeavor was hopeless, especially when Sam put his giant hand on his brother’s face and pushed him out of the way.

“Alright, Cas, time to educate you on healthy eating,” the younger Winchester stated with a definite air of satisfaction.

“You’re going to ruin his appetite!” Dean groused, his expression petulant.

“You lost rock, paper scissors, jerk, so shut up!” Sam shot back before he returned his attention to Castiel. “Anyway, salad precedes the main course, so dig in.” He thumped a bowl of leafy greens and other things in front of Castiel.

He, in turn, tilted his head one way then the other in inspection before squinting.

“What’s in this?” It was question they’d come to expect nearly every time the ex-warrior of God put something new in his mouth. He wanted to know everything, even if the tangled words on the side of the cereal box caused him more consternation than enlightenment.

Sam stood a bit straighter as he spoke, “Candied walnuts, mixed greens, dried cranberries, Gorgonzola cheese and some vinaigrette dressing. Trust me, you’ll like it.” His tone turned cajoling, “Lot of different textures and flavors, and they complement each other.” When Dean let out a derisive snort Sam shot an elbow into his brother’s side that sent him staggering back, a hand over his ribs.

“If he’s too full for REAL FOOD I will shave your eyebrows in your sleep,” Dean threatened as he stalked back into the kitchen.

Castiel opened his mouth to vow he would happily eat whatever Dean deigned to make for him, but the man was already gone, disappeared behind the swinging door of the kitchen to continuing cursing and banging things together, a seemingly crucial component of tonight’s meal.

Sighing, Castiel returned his attention to the food in front of him. The few greens he’d consumed previously he'd salvaged from dumpsters behind grocery stores. There were unappetizing, to say the least. He knew Sam would not give him garbage, but he still approached his first bite with caution, picking through the bowl to spear just a few leaves of greens with his fork before sliding the tines between his teeth with great deliberation and letting the mouthful sit on his tongue a few moments before chewing.

The crunch of the greens was very pleasant, the taste fresh and light. He tried a walnut next; the new texture terribly interesting in his fingers as he picked one out of the bowl and examined it before he popped it in his mouth. It was slightly soft; it didn’t crunch like the roasted peanuts he’d tried before, a little sweet but overly so. 

A dried cranberry was also tested singly, and Castiel’ mouth pursed in a moue of disapproval. 

Sam grinned as the man across from him at the table picked out all the cranberries and carefully deposited them on the napkin next to his bowl.

“Your loss, Cas,” he teased before he grabbed a few and popped them in his mouth. The ex-angel was sure the noises of enjoyment Sam made were exaggerated.

“They’re too…” Castiel’s mind searched for the appropriate adjective to give to the strange tightening in his jaw when he bit into the berries, the way his cheeks drew in and his lips puckered slightly. “…tart. They’re tart.” He nodded to himself, pleased he’d gained a new preference. He didn’t like things that were too tart.

The cheese was absolutely fascinating; it was crumbly when he squashed a bit with his fork, but in his mouth it melted in a creamy fashion. The taste was strong, pungent, but not unpleasant, and a bit salty. He liked it. Content he’d tried all the components individually and found most of them to his liking, he swirled his fork around, picking up a bit of everything and trying the whole together.

Sam leaned forward like he was awaiting judgment.

“It’s good. Very good,” Castiel pronounced after a few more bites. “Most of it. Not the cranberries.”

Sam’s face split into what Castiel had heard Dean describe as a “shit eating grin” just as his older brother walked in with his own meal contribution. Castiel was confident it was just an expression.

“He likes it, Dean. Score one for healthy eating,” Sam crowed, pointing at Castiel as the new human proceeded to demolish the salad in front of him. “Finally, someone around here is on my side.”

Castiel sat up, a look of consternation on his face that he directed at Sam.

“I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m…going with my gut, like you said I should. I like this salad. That’s all.” He gave Dean a heavy look that he hoped conveyed that Castiel’s developing taste was not a sign of favoritism towards Sam. Dean would always be his favorite Winchester.

The look on Dean’s face was the very definition of confidence. “Whatever, Sammy, once Cas gets a taste of this beauty it’ll be two for Team Carnivore.” 

He set down his own offering in front of Castiel with a bit of unnecessary flair. He’d had burgers before, lots of them, but this one was quite a bit larger and certainly more aesthetically pleasing than the ones procured from fast food establishments and diners while traveling with the brothers. 

Castiel’s fingers reached out and picked it up with due attention, mindful he was under intense scrutiny. The bun was warm, soft, but not mushy in his careful grip. He leaned forward, inhaled, and started slightly at the instant flood of saliva in his mouth. Rather than pick it apart to its component pieces and sample them individually, as he was prone to do, Castiel decided to go with his instinct and took a large bite, teeth sinking through bread, crisp lettuce, a juicy tomato that he knew immediately had the perfect balance of acidity and mild sweetness, and tender, hot, succulent meat cooked to what he could only determine was utter perfection.

He closed his eyes and sighed quietly as he focused on the entire experience, rather than trying to break it down to its singular attributes and determine which were better than others. He took another bite, then another, before a soft cough dragged his attention back to the other people in the room. He opened his eyes to see Dean leaning forward, his face split in a grin and his head nodding up and down, as though subconsciously willing Castiel to nod along with him.

“So?” he queried without a note of doubt in his voice. 

Castiel didn’t bother to swallow the mouthful before he answered, “S’epic.”

“Ha HA!” Dean shouted and shoved a victorious finger in his brother’s face. “Told you, bitch!” Sam rolled his eyes but didn’t look all that put out, his own lips stretched in a smile. 

“Whatever, he can like burgers and salads, jerk.”

Dean ignored him and leaned across the table, hand held up, palm towards Castiel, who took another bite of his burger and sighed happily again. It really was epic, way better than the burritos he had his first night here.

“Don’t leave me hanging, Cas! Up top!”

Castiel cocked his head to the side, raised his right hand and smacked his palm loudly against Dean’s. His first properly executed high five.

“Awesome.” He meant both the burger and the high five. He felt stupendously accomplished tonight, and both Dean and Sam seemed incredibly pleased with themselves and him. That was rare, and Castiel intended to enjoy it.

And he did.

Until he told Dean the blueberry pie was much too sweet for his taste, and Sam laughed so hard the beer he’d just taken a swig of sprayed across the table and into the former angel’s face. As he was wiping his cheek with his napkin he felt a twinge of regret at the look of utter devastation on Dean’s face.

Fortunately, Dean’s despondency was fleeting, as he shortly realized he could eat the entire pie without sharing.

“More for me then,” he grumbled around a mouthful of crumbly flaky crust and sticky syrup that would surely give him diabetes. He glared at Castiel until the ex-angel started to shift uncomfortably then the older Winchester winked. “Assbutt.”

That, Castiel realized, was an affectionate insult. Like jerk. Or bitch.

He felt very honored.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, humbled. “Can I have another burger...with Gorgonzola on it this time?”


	2. At Least You Don't Stink

Castiel yawned as he ambled into the library one morning with his perfect cup of coffee and a plate of toast with grape jelly. He found jam unsettling, the texture and seeds unpleasant. 

“M’rning,” he mumbled as he plunked down into a chair and started pulling his most recent stack of translation notes closer so he could begin reworking the Diablo Esotericum into something useful for the 21st century rather than the 17th.

“Someone is not a morning person,” Dean noted with a jackass smirk that Castiel decided was completely indecent to have before at least 11am, so his only response was a grunt as he took a large bite of slathered toast.

If anything Dean’s expression shifted into greater amusement. “Cas.” Dean waved a hand by his own ear. “This is a thing now? I thought Sam was bad.”

Castiel’s head canted to one side and he made a show of slowly chewing, working his jaw in a circle, while he fixed Dean with the sort of stare that plainly said he had no idea to what Dean was referring with the vague statement and even less helpful hand gesture.

Dean snorted, “Hairbrush, Cas, you ever use one? You look like you’ve been electrocuted.”

The ex-angel shook his head as he washed down his toast with coffee. “I never had to before,” he added pointedly.

Refusing to back down at the reminder that for years Castiel had managed everything about his vessel with angelic power, the body physical frozen at the state it was in at initial possession, Dean rolled his eyes.

Castiel brushed crumbs off his hand and tried to pat down his hair. It was longer than it had ever been during his occupation of this...his body, shaggy on the sides and in front but determinedly peaked on top. He dragged his fingers through it a few times in an attempt to tame it, but the look on Dean’s face told him it was of no use.

“Dude, get yourself sorted out,” Dean remarked as he rose to put away the book he’d been flipping through, one hand slapping Castiel’s shoulder as he passed. “You’re a mess.”

That last comment was the one that lead to Castiel standing in front of his bathroom mirror later that day with the kitchen shears in his hand. 

He didn’t want to be a mess. He needed to get this right, to show the Winchesters he could be self-sufficient, if not now then eventually.  
He eyed his reflection, blue eyes focused on hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, quite literally. It stuck out in all directions on the top and in the back but then chose to hang over his ears and forehead. 

_Snip snip_

_Snip_

_Snip snip snip_

Sam’s reaction was startling. While Castiel had certainly heard the younger Winchester laugh before, often huffs of amusement, quiet snickers, throat clearing that morphed into a chuckle, he’d no idea how explosive Sam’s merriment could be.

The man HOWLED, and Castiel took a step back in surprise. 

Sam sucked in a deep breath, as though to compose himself, then made the mistake of looking at the ex-angel again and he completely lost it. 

The longer he laughed the more thunderous Castiel’s expression grew. 

Sam couldn’t resist and snagged his phone to take a photo before the other man could do more than raise his hand to try to block him and fired it off to his older brother who was on a beer and ammo run. Sam wouldn’t let the other man see Dean’s response, which arrived in seconds, but it must have been something the young hunter thought funny because he doubled over once more, hands pressed tight over his stomach as though pained.

Castiel wasn't able to smite anymore but he felt certain if he just glared at the hysterical Winchester a bit harder he might succeed in immolating him. 

Apparently his attempt to manage his hair was hilarious. While laughter was often a positive thing it clearly was not so in this case. He stalked past Sam and down the stairs to the living quarters on the lower level of the bunker. 

Castiel learned another new thing then: slamming a door shut very hard was satisfying in a way he couldn’t quite describe. It felt furiously expressive, so he opened his door and slammed it shut again just to make sure Sam understood it was on purpose. 

The laughter floating down the stairs didn’t stop for a while.

A sharp rap on the door sounded a couple of hours later and drew Castiel’s attention away from the battered borrowed paperback. He’d sought distraction from the unpleasant sear of embarrassment that made his face feel hot, and it had worked for a while. This Vonnegut was quite engaging.

He didn’t answer the knock immediately, undecided if he was willing to face Sam’s laughter again.

“Cas, I know you’re sulking in there,” Dean's voice drawled from the other side of the door.

“I’m not sulking,” he replied stiffly.

“Angel or human you are a shitty liar, man,” Dean said reasonably. “Now open the door or I’m just going to pick the lock. You know I’ll do it.”

Castiel sighed mightily, another wonderfully expressive non-verbal thing he’d picked up from the brothers, and slid off the bed to twist the lock and jerk the door open. The flat glare he shot at Dean, the one that dared the man to disrespect him, fell entirely flat as Dean’s eye automatically rose to Castiel’s hair.

Dean raised a first to his mouth and coughed raggedly twice, but the sound of a strangled chuckle still leaked through, then he cleared his throat and set his shoulders. Castiel appreciated that Dean at least tried to restrain his amusement at the fallen angel's apparent ineptitude.

“So...Cas…that’s certainly a look.” A muscled worked in Dean’s jaw, ticking as he struggled to keep his voice even.

“You told me to do something about my hair,” he accused even though this wasn’t really Dean’s fault. Humiliation was easy to swap for anger Castiel had learned. The lesson in deflection something he picked up more easily than hair care.

“I meant _get_ a haircut, Cas,” Dean responded with a hint of exasperation. "From someone who knows what they're doing."

The look Castiel directed at him spoke volumes. The Winchesters brothers were not the only ones masterful holding an entire conversation with no words.

”…right. No money, no ride, no knowledge of how to wipe your own ass,” Dean sighed and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes that came from amusement quickly slid away to be replaced by the deeper ones that bespoke a certain weariness at dealing with the vagaries of an ex-angel new to hygiene practices.

“I know how to wipe my own ass, Dean,” Cas shot back, his hand back on the door to close it in Dean’s face. 

“Alright, alright, simmer down, Cas,” Dean waved a hand as though dismissing the whole thing. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. A shitty haircut is like a rite of passage.” Dean leaned forward, his voice low as though inviting Castiel’s confidence. 

“Sammy was in the 3rd grade and some little shit made fun of his hair, so he tried to cut it himself.” He interrupted himself with a short bark of laughter, “Oh man, you should have seen it. He got our dad’s clippers and had this huge fucking stripe down the side of his head, bald as a baby.”

“…really?” Castiel marveled, trying and failing to picture Sam with anything except long brown locks that were annoyingly easy to tame with only his fingers.

“Yeah, but I fixed him up, saved him from an ass kicking at school. C’mon, Cas.” Dean turned with a beckoning gesture as he headed for his own room. Castiel followed only after he looked up and down the hall to ensure Sam wasn’t nearby to laugh at him again.

As if he had the right to, given Dean’s story! Bald as baby. Castiel's mouth stretched in a smile at the very notion; it was difficult to imagine Sam that way, but it was entertaining to try.

“Alright, park it,” the elder Winchester ordered and pointed at the closed lid of the toilet in his own bathroom. Castiel sat obediently as Dean rummaged through the cabinet under his sink and pulled out a towel and some clippers.

“Do you still cut Sam’s hair?” Castiel queried.

Dean chuckled and hook his head. Castiel thought perhaps Dean's expression was rueful. 

“Nope, not for a long time. Princess goes to the salon,” he dragged the last word out with a hint of derision as he handed Castiel a towel. “Put that around your neck, tuck it into your collar if you can, keeps hair from getting all over you.” 

“I’ve been taking care of myself for years though, no point wasting money at the barber’s. You have to admit I look good.” Dean winked at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink, and his confidence made Castiel smile slightly. Dean was correct, he did look good.

He laid out a few implements on the counter with which Castiel wasn't familiar.

“Alright, Cas, the lower the number on the guards the shorter your hair will be,” Dean lectured, pointing at the various guards on the counter before he turned to examine Castiel’s ragged hack job of a haircut. “You fucked up the sides pretty good so a 3, maybe work back to a 2, on the sides up to about here.” He tapped a spot on the side of Castiel’s head at just above with the top of his ear. “It’s called a ‘high and tight’, Cas.”

“A high and tight,” he repeated.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna leave as much as I can up top so you don’t look like military. Good thing you didn’t whack at it too much here,” Dean commented, running his left hand through the dark mop left on top of Castiel's head and tugging it upward so he could judge the length.

Castiel didn’t answer; his opinion wasn’t really needed as Dean certainly appeared to know what he was doing.

Instead he let his eyes close as Dean turned his head this way and that. It was pleasant, the touch of his fingers to his head, relaxing.

Dean’s low voice kept going, talking Castile through what he was doing, educating him in the process. 

“Using clippers you need your hair dry. You want to start at the back and work up with smooth, short strokes, alright?” Castiel hummed as the clippers started at the nape of his neck and slid up at an angle with a pleasing vibration that made his scalp tingle. 

“It takes a while to get the hang of it, so you should probably ask for help the first couple of times. Otherwise you’re gonna screw it up again.” 

Castiel understood it was an offer. 

“Thank you, Dean. I don’t want to screw it up again.” His eyes remained closed, and he didn’t move unless Dean’s fingers prodded him to turn as the clippers now moved to the side of his head. “How often must this be done?”

Dean chuckled. “If you’re Sammy once every 2 years. Me?” Dean made a noncommittal sound. “Every month or two, depends on how I feel. Sometimes I like it shorter, sometimes bit longer, but I am never going full Sammy. That shit is just crazy.”

“You tease your brother about his hair,” Castiel mused. “But you have to admit it looks nice, even if it’s longer than most men wear it.”

Dean snorted and a hot puff of breath hit Castiel’s cheek. He cracked his eyes to find Dean crouching in his peripheral vision, the clippers moving carefully around his left ear.

“If you want to grow it out, Cas, be my guest, but it’s going to take a while after this fiasco. I reserve the right to give you shit about it if you do.”

“No, I think I’d look…strange.” If he had long hair Dean wouldn’t cut it. He'd have to go to the salon with Sam, he supposed. If he hunted, if the brothers let him, long hair could be grabbed. He didn't want that. “Short is fine.”

“Well short is all I can salvage from this disaster, man, so you better like it,” Dean quipped as he changed guards out for one with a higher number and sifted his fingers through the fallen angel’s hair, combing it forward then back over the crown of his head.

“Closer than you’re used to but you’ll live,” Dean tossed out as he continued to to cut, fingers lifting, sliding, inspecting before he was satisfied. He used the back of his other hand to knock loose hair off Castiel’s shoulder when he was done then pulled the towel from his shoulders to brush away the rest of his neck, cheek, one ear. “Alright, think I saved you.”

Castiel started to get up but Dean’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Look, if you hate it you just have to wait a couple of weeks, and it’ll grow out. Half an inch a month, I think.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he assured the other man and stood to inspect himself in the mirror.

It was different, shorter than he’d seen it before. Shorter than Jimmy’s hair certainly, although the top was still tousled and stood more upright than lay flat against his head.

He leaned forward and turned his face at an angle to examine the sides. The hair was shorn so closely there he could see his scalp and he touched it. The stubbly texture found there was not as abrasive as the hair on his cheeks, it was softer, and he rubbed his hand along the side and to the back of his head.

He caught Dean’s eye in the mirror. “It feels…fuzzy.” A new texture, he liked it.

Dean grinned at his reflection. “Oh yeah, chicks dig fuzz. They love rubbing that shit.”

Castiel wasn’t sure how he felt about chicks rubbing his fuzz. It wasn’t something he thought he’d need to concern himself with anytime soon, so he pushed it out of his mind as he ran his fingers up through his hair. 

It was odd how when Dean did it the sensation was completely different, much more relaxing. He did it again, same result, and he dragged his fingers down to his temples then his cheeks. He frowned at his reflection.

“It doesn’t look right.”

Dean huffed and in the mirror Castiel saw his arms cross over his chest, a precursor to the Winchester puffing up defensively. 

“Look, I told you there was only so much I cou-“

“No, Dean,” he interrupted and turned to face him. “I mean, it doesn’t look right with this.” He rubbed his palm along his hairy jaw. He hadn’t shaved since he’d returned to the bunker almost 2 weeks ago. He’d managed once while staying at a homeless shelter with a disposable razor, but he’d cut his face several times and hadn’t tried since. 

“Can the clippers fix this too?” He dropped his eyes, unwilling to admit how inept he was at a blade. Well, he was sure he was still quite efficient at using one to kill things, but when holding such a slim one to his own flesh his hand had been frustratingly shaky.

Dean’s shoulders dropped their defensive stiffness, and the look he gave Castiel was strangely relieved. 

“Going all out on the clean up, huh?” When Castiel nodded Dean's lips curved in a smile, pleased, and the ex-angel thought he should have done this sooner. “Nah, man, but I have a beard trimmer. I’ll show you how to use it.”

He stood shoulder to shoulder with Castiel, both of them facing the mirror as Dean showed him how to use the electric trimmer, explained how it left a shade of stubble rather than smooth skin like a shaver would.

“Ladies love a little rug burn.” Dean nudged Castiel in the ribs with his elbow as he moved his opposite hand over his face in demonstration.

Castiel turned his cheek and ran the trimmer down it. “I wouldn’t know.” 

He was happy to remove the thick prickly hairs that had been there for weeks. All that was left was a dark shadow and the familiar sensation of stiff stubble just above the surface. He ran his fingers over his chin, under his nose, like Dean showed him, and followed with the trimmer. He took his time, he wanted to do this correctly, show Dean he wasn’t completely incompetent regarding care for this...his body. 

Yes, he needed to learn all sorts of thing he'd not considered before, but he didn’t need to be taught more than once.

When he thought he was finished he peered at his reflection critically for a long minute before he turned to Dean. 

“How do I look?”

He knew he was well inside Dean’s overly large personal space bubble. However, Castiel noted it seemed to have shrunk since he arrived at the bunker a few weeks ago, and Dean had crossed that invisible border several times to initiate shoulder slaps, high fives, and rib nudges. 

He did things like that for Sam. Now he did them for Castiel. Castiel also got haircuts. It was nice.

“Good, man, good.” Dean looked pretty pleased with Castiel’s appearance and his own hand in cleaning him up. “Gotta admit, I'm not going to miss the neck beard.”

“Me either. It itched,” Castiel confessed, a hand reaching up to scratch reflexively.

“C’mon, let’s go show Sammy.” When Castiel stiffened under the hand on his shoulder he added, “He’s not going to laugh and if he does, fuck ‘em, Cas.”

“I don’t intend to fu-“ Castiel began but the look on Dean’s face informed him that a literal interpretation of that phrase was the exact wrong way to go about it. 

“Right. Fuck’em,” Castiel stated, determined. 

Sam didn’t laugh; in fact, he seemed a bit shocked at the Castiel’s transformation from bedraggled bum to sharp and tidy. He rocked back in his kitchen chair, a beer in his hand, as he looked he looked his friend up and down. 

“Nice, Cas. You look like your old self but better.” 

Castiel wasn’t sure how that was possible. His old self was over 1000 feet tall and had 3 faces. Now he just looked like Jimmy Novak, but he believed Sam somehow. 

“Thank you, Sam. Dean did an admirable job under less than ideal circumstances.” He ran his fingers experimentally along the pleasantly fuzzy nape of his neck again. “I’m happy with it.”

Dean looked happy with it too, if his puffed up posture was any indication.

“You know, Dean, if you wanted, I’m sure Sheila could give you a chair at the salon to work,” Sam suggested.

Castiel went to get a broom to sweep up clippings from the bathroom floor, neatly avoiding the sprawl of too long limbs as Dean kicked Sam’s chair out from under him.


	3. Got You covered

“I need clothes,” Castiel announced to the brothers seated at the war room table, heads bent over laptops.

“What's wrong with what we gave you?” Dean grunted, not bothering to look up as he scrolled.

He and Sam had donated a couple pair of jeans, a handful of old t-shirts, two flannels each, and an unopened pack of boxers when Castiel had landed in the bunker 3 weeks ago. Plenty to live with and easy enough to shove in a go-bag if a case came up. The Winchester way.

The frustrated noise the ex-angel made caused the younger Winchester to look up. Dean did also when Sam's hard kick under the table jerked him to painful attention

“The hell did you do, man?”

“Laundry,” Castiel stated flatly, his tone and expression so neutral in comparison to the rest of him it was ludicrous. The long sleeved shirt and jeans he wore were splotched white and where they weren't denuded completely of color they were horribly faded.

Dean rolled his eyes heavenward, as though praying for the patience to deal with this latest mishap, while Sam's brow furrowed in what Castiel had come to learn was his "tolerant-of-the less-intelligent" expression.

“You're not supposed to use bleach on colors, Cas," Sam sighed he tucked his hair behind his ears.

“I realize that _now_ ,” Castiel grunted, hands clenched into fists at his side before he jammed them in his pockets and looked away from the brothers.

“Alright, I'll bite. How much did you wash?” Dean pushed away from the table, his laptop already closed.

“Almost all of mine were dirty so...you always do it...I tried to...” Castiel trailed off, not looking directly at either of the brothers. While his haircut adventure had made him flush in embarrassment this time his face was better schooled, more resigned and less mortified.

“Like I said, I need more clothes.”

“Well you're not going out looking like that; we got a reputation to maintain.” Dean put his hand on Castiel's back and gave him a push in the direction of the living level. “Go put on whatever you got left and meet us in the garage. C'mon, Sammy, time for a fucking shopping montage.”

Castiel scurried for his room to retrieve the only pair of pants he had left, Sam's, which were much too long; he'd had to cut them off several inches above the hem to keep from tripping over the ends. He could live with the bleached out shirt for now. When he entered the garage he caught the tail end of a conversation the brothers were having over the top of the Impala. Dean's face was tense, Sam's pleading.

“-can't pretend it's going to get b-hey, Cas,” Sam interrupted himself smoothly, his eyebrows raised as he took in the ex-angel standing at the foot of the stairs. “Are those my old jeans?”

“I had to alter them to make them usable,” he explained, looking down at the ragged edges that flopped over his boots.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean muttered before ducking in the car to slam the door a bit harder than usual. His hand appeared out the window to pat the panel as though in apology to his baby. Sam shrugged at Castiel as if that gesture would explain Dean's mood, and Castiel returned it. 

Castiel sat quietly in the back, his hands folded in his lap and face turned to the window to take in the passing scenery as they drove from the bunker service road to the two lane county highway that lead to Lebanon a couple of miles away.

Sam turned in his seat to regard the man. “So new shirts and pants, obviously. Anything else?”

“I need a coat.”

Dean's gaze flicked to Castiel and a ghost of a smile slid over his face.

“Gloves probably, a hat. It's already autumn, and it will be winter soon. I don't want to be cold again.” The memory of trying and failing to sleep while he huddled, shivering, in the doorway of a closed shop to get out of the rain was one he would not soon forget. He shouldn't.

The faint smile on Dean's face vanished.

“No you don't, especially not your first real winter,” Sam responded, his tone patient, a little indulgent even.

“Another pair of shoes besides my boots. You wear running shoes sometimes, Sam. I think I will need some.”

“Why? You planning to run off, Cas?” Dean joked, although his tone was a bit dark.

“No, but I don't believe boots are the proper footwear if I need to exercise. I have to start being mindful of how to keep this body strong,” Castiel replied and his eyes moved from the window to catch Dean's in the mirror.

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Right, you and Sammy are gonna be a regular pair of gym rats.”

Castiel opened his mouth to refute the comparison to vermin but thought better of it and simply shrugged before turning his attention back to the view of Main St. now sliding by the car.

“You passed the thrift store,” Sam pointed out after a few minutes. “You should circle around.”

“Hey, the guy needs clothes the guy needs clothes. His first ones shouldn’t be second hand, alright?” Dean responded, a bit defensively if Castiel were to remark upon it. Which he didn't.

“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t wish to be...extravagant,” he interjected in hopes of defusing the slowly rising tension in the car. “The thrift store is fine.”

Dean ignored him and muttered something under his breath Castiel didn’t quite catch.

Whatever the Winchesters thought was best, at least in Wal-Mart, was apparently identical to their own clothing: faded jeans: plaid flannels in every color combination, t-shirts and boxers sold in plastic wrapped packages of three. Castiel looked from the things quickly tossed in the cart to the Winchesters before he removed a pair of stonewashed jeans and replaced them on a shelf.

“Thank you for your assistance but might I make a few selections on my own?” Castiel watched both brothers’ reaction as he fished through the cart and deliberately put back almost all the flannel shirts.

Sam’s expression might have been called impressed, but Castiel thought that would be a bit much for asserting his preference in clothing. 

"Yeah, alright, go for it, Cas. Figure out what you want.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said primly as he immediately swapped all the light jeans for darker hues. Dean’s expression was not one Castiel could easily read, and the older brother disappeared the corner of another aisle.

The flannels all went, except for a green one shot through with subtle brown threads, and were replaced with solid colored dress shirts in light blue, white, grey, black. Henleys and t-shirts in shades like the charcoal of a burned grave, rust red like dried blood, yellow like a sunflower, slate of the sky before a storm finally broke, blue like the color he saw when he caught his own gaze in the mirror and had to admit he was alone inside himself.

He wasn’t sure what would fit. He was smaller than Sam, certainly, but about the same size as Dean if an inch or two shorter. He eyed the other items in the cart then shifted his weight from his right foot to left and discretely tugged at his jeans and tried to maneuver his boxers straight again from where they’d begun yet another annoying crawl up his leg under his pants.

He took his time as he sorted new selections, reading each item's packaging as they all seemed to extol the virtues of the various types of men’s undergarments. 

Would he value support or comfort more? Cotton or a polyester blend? What was better suited to an active lifestyle? Solid or patterns? 

He elected to put a pack of colored boxer briefs in the cart as they seemed a good compromise and, more importantly, they advertised “support, coverage and no-rise.” 

Sam kept his comments to himself for the most part, seemingly content to watch Castiel search the men's section in a methodical manner except to insist if Castiel was going to exercise he should get some basketball shorts even if they didn’t play basketball. They were good workout clothes, he assured him; since the ex-angel has no interest in learning the complicated rules of organized sports that was reassuring.

“Hey, hey, look what I found,” Dean’s voice came from behind a rack a moment before he appeared. “Alright, so it’s not exactly the same but close enough, right?” He held up a long beige trenchcoat and smiled wide.

The feeling of wrongness, of rejection, at the sight of the garment was so immediate and powerful Castiel flinched visibly. 

“No...no, I don’t...I don't want that.”

It was ridiculous; it made no sense. It was just a coat, fabric and seams but, for some reason, it felt like if he put it on it would be akin to taking up Atlas’ burden. Some implacable weight would press him down as he struggled to find stand upright, find firm ground.

Castiel knew how important symbols were; spellcasting, scrying, hunting relied on them. He didn’t want this one associated with him anymore.

The cheeky grin gracing Dean’s face dropped and the myriad of micro-expressions that flitted after were hard to follow: confusion, disappointment, frustration, anger, and something that made an undefined space in Castiel’s chest clench painfully.

“Dean, I-” he started.

“Forget it,” the elder Winchester grunted as he turned away and jammed the coat onto a rack for logo t-shirts before he stalked off. The back of his neck was flushed red above his shirt collar.

Sam looked between his brother’s retreating back and the fallen angel near him clutching a pair of black workout shorts tightly in one hand. 

“He’s angry,” Castiel ventured, unsure if that was the primary emotion on Dean’s face or just the last.

Sam’s voice tone was consoling, “Yeah but not at you. He’s pissed about the situation.”

Castiel dropped the shorts in the cart and moved to grab some socks, not bothering to look at the description. 

“I don’t think your brother has fully grasped the situation, Sam.”

“You know Dean. There’s always a way out,” Sam sighed as he plucked the ankle socks out and replaced them for trouser length because Castiel didn't know he needed those for his work boots.

“There isn’t one this time, Sam, I told you that. I told both of you that,” Castiel insisted. 

An angel’s grace was like a fingerprint, no two were the same, each unique to the angel, deliberately made so by their Father. There were no cheats, no substitution, no “take backsies” as Gabriel would say. Castiel’s was gone, consumed by the spell that had broken Heaven, there was no retrieving it, no replacing it, no second chance. 

He was human, he would be so until this... _his_ body died.

After that...he didn’t know. He doubted he would be afforded a personal heaven like other humans; more than likely he would go to Hell for his innumerable sins, as it was still open for business.

With that thought weighing on his mind he looked up at Sam. 

“I suppose informing him I need an anti-possession tattoo as soon as possible would also upset him.” Castiel looked around, realizing just now how foolish it was to venture out of the bunker for the first time since his arrival without one. But he was with the brothers, as safe as he could be given the circumstances.

“Probably,” Sam agreed, “But getting one without telling him will definitely piss him off more.” A large but gentle hand landed on Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ll go find him and let him know we need to hit the tattoo parlor too. You keep looking for stuff. Get a new coat, Cas. Kansas winters are no joke.” 

Castiel nodded and returned his attention to the wide array of clothing around him. He noticed, but didn't remark on, Sam took the trenchcoat with him when he left in search of his brother.

Castiel pulled the cart to the dressing room, unloaded its contents onto a bench, and began to try them on. He sorted them into piles of too small, too large, and just right, folding everything as best he could so as to inconvenience the employees who would put items back on the shelves as little as possible. As he buttoned and zipped and tugged on and pulled things this way and that his mind examined topics as far from his fashion choices as possible. 

He understood Dean’s tenaciousness; it was the cornerstone upon which most of his personality was built. Steady, solid, frustratingly unyielding. No one was dead until Dean Winchester accepted it. Hell, no one even stayed dead unless the man personally decided to let them rest, often a decision sometimes assisted by the Horseman Death, himself. 

Castiel wasn’t sure he could explain to Dean that there were some things more immutable than Death, and he knew it could well be pointless to try. Actions spoke louder and much more effective than words. Words lied, actions less so. Castiel would have to show him.

Dean could rant and scowl and even barter with Horsemen to try to fix Castiel, but nothing and no one could.

Castiel wasn’t entirely certain he was broken. All he knew was he was human, and he needed to do human things.

Perhaps, over time, Dean would face the facts. Probably a lot of time. Maybe more than Castiel had. The idea that only dying, and not coming back for once, might be the sort of kick in the ass Dean needed to accept Castiel's mortality was scarily plausible.

The ex-angel caught his own eye in the mirror's reflection. Without thinking he’d wound a tie around his neck and knotted it, his hand patting the smooth grey polyester with white stripes down his chest. Muscle memory, perhaps Jimmy’s, perhaps his own knowledge of how it was done that he’d never bothered to utilize before because what was a messy tie to an Angel of the Lord? 

Now he would be a fake FBI agent, Eddie Moscone. He still had the badge. He'd stolen everything from Jimmy: his body, his family, his whole life. This was the first thing he’d ever been truly given. 

It now sat in his otherwise empty desk; he’d no other personal possessions with which to fill the sparten room in the bunker the brothers had given him. Until today. That thought cheered him enough that he was able to push Dean’s unhappy state from his mind. If he fixated upon the man whenever Dean was ticked off Castiel would never get anything done, and the list of things he needed to work on grew longer each day.

He rifled through the coats piled on the bench and dismissed two immediately as possessing an unpleasant feel under his hand, too slick, plastic-y.

“Plastic-y? Plasticky? Is that a word?” he mused to himself. He knew every word of every language, and it seemed he needed to create new ones to catalog his preferences, how his brain scrambled to process each new taste and touch and smell he encountered. 

The next coat in his hand was a heather grey that ran to mid-thigh. He rubbed his cheek against the collar as he slid it on; the tag said “Wool Blend. Dry clean only.” He’d ask what that meant later when it was time to clean it. 

He slipped on the last of jackets, what the sign termed “faux leather” and the hope he’d felt when he spied it faded. He turned from side to side, scrutinizing his reflection then he slid his hands up to raise the collar. 

That was closer, but it wasn’t right. The material felt cool, strange. The smell was completely off. It didn't reek of warm skin and pine and gunpowder; it was horribly foreign and artificial. Perhaps if he wore it enough it would start to smell like him. The thought stuck and Castiel put it in the cart along with the other things he’d determined fit.

When he exited the dressing room he saw neither Winchester. He wasn’t overly concerned, if they wanted to locate him they would call the phone in his pocket. Still best not to push his luck, so he maneuvered his cart to the largest aisle that ran parallel to men’s clothing and started to scan over the top of racks and shelves for Sam’s unmistakable hair.

While he didn’t find the brothers immediately he found something nearly as interesting: firearms. They were dangerous, and they were also sold a few yards away from children’s bicycles. The TV advertisements were correct: Wal-Mart did have everything. 

Castiel wasn’t proficient with guns, having used a sawed off shotgun only once, because he’d always been much more skilled in hand to hand combat. Smiting, stabbing, impaling, otherwise putting holes in being’s bodies with his own two hands. He'd been good at it, very good; however, now guns were absolutely necessary. Vital. 

The luxury of killing something at a distance appealed greatly to Castiel’s new found sense of self-preservation.

The man in a blue smock standing behind the counter saw Castiel’s gaze land in the rifles. “Ready for hunting season?”

“...yes.” Castiel nodded slowly, aware what he had in mind stalking wasn’t at all what the man thought. “However, I rarely used guns before. I’d like to learn.”

“Bow hunter, huh? Nice. That’s a dang art, I tell you,” the man nodded approvingly at his incorrect assumption. “Alright, well, for newbies the Mossberg ATR-100 with scope is pretty popular or this Savage Axis. I’d go with either .70 or .30-06, they're perfect for deer hunting. Hey, if you don’t have your season permit yet we do those here too.”

Castiel blinked at the wash of words and numbers over him and again at the notion of needing a permit to kill anything, much less something as inoffensive as a deer. 

“I’m not sure,” he fumbled.

“Cas!” A hand clapped hard on his shoulder. “Don’t wander off like that.” Dean’s tone was chiding; it grated the ex-angel, and he shrugged off the touch.

“I didn’t ‘wander off’.” Dean huffed at the appearance of unnecessary air quotes. “I was looking for you and Sam and found the firearms.” He fixed the elder Winchester with an unwavering look. “Hunting season starts soon, and it’s time I learned how to use them.”

He didn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes darted between himself and the man behind the counter who was looking at them expectantly. 

“Yeeaaahhh...I don’t know, Cas.” He shifted, a distinctly uncomfortable movement.

Castiel frowned and turned to the salesperson. “What do you have for something bigger than deer? A lot bigger. Faster too.” 

That question took the man off guard, and he looked between the two of them. “What the hell you planning to hunt?”

“Excuse us,” Dean said in an overly jolly tone and tugged Castiel away quickly. “Cas, jeez, if you’re so fucking set on learning about guns you’ve got me and Sam. Don’t waste your time on this Red Ryder BB crap they sell here.”

Castiel allowed himself to be pushed down the aisle back to his abandoned cart where Sam now waited, but this discussion was not over.

Dean gave his brother an outraged look. "He was asking the Wal-Mart guy about hunting rifles! Can you believe that shit?"

“I didn’t think you’d want to teach me,” Castiel stated simply, and the looks the brothers traded confirmed it, although he suspected they felt that way for different reasons.

Sam corroborated that notion when he said, “Cas, I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t think you’re anywhere near ready to hunt.”

Castiel turned to the elder Winchester and demanded, “What about you?” Dean remained quiet, even if his teeth worked at his lower lip as though he wanted to say something. Castiel inhaled impatiently and opened his mouth, “I’m goi-”

“Stubborn son of a bitch is gonna try whether we want him to or not,” Dean interrupted. “Might as well make sure he knows how to do it right.” Sam opened his mouth, the forthcoming objection obvious. “C’mon, Sammy, he can’t even do laundry!” he pointed out.

The younger man stayed silent a few moments then reluctantly nodded his assent. Castiel smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t be so smug, Cas,” Dean groused as he grabbed the cart from his brother and wheeled it towards check out in a manner that somehow struck Castiel as quite huffy. “You’ll regret this when we start training. Not gonna go easy on you.”

“You better not,” he responded tartly.

Sam muttered quietly, pacing at Castiel's side a few paces behind his brother, “He’s not kidding, Cas. Dean will probably be harder on you than he’s ever been on me.” Castiel gave him a skeptical look, as if it were impossible for Dean to be harder on anyone more than Sam. “Just try not to take it personally,” Sam pleaded.

“I’m not concerned,” Castiel maintained. “I’m more capable than he thinks, than either of you thinks.”

“Cas, listen-” Sam started but he was cut off by a sharp motion of Castiel's hand.

“I know very well what bleach does to colors.” Castiel kept walking although Sam halted abruptly. He looked over his shoulder with a condescending snort. “I _can_ read, you know. Better than either of you.”

The look of pure offense Sam gave him, followed by an admiring, “You _sneaky_ little shit,” was the highlight of Castiel’s morning.

“Please hurry up; I’d like to change out of these hand-me-downs,” he gestured to the ragged loaner jeans he’d been stuck with for weeks, “and get inked.”


	4. There's No Tiger

It had taken a frustratingly long time for the brothers to agree on who would teach Castiel which subjects while he was a “hunter in training”. Both Winchesters had a tendency to interrupt and override each other when they tried to educate the ex-angel. It was difficult to determine to whom he should listen when both Sam and Dean argued over hunting techniques.

While their shared knowledge was formidable, and Castiel was grateful for it, the Winchesters had never considered how they would impart it. They’d learned by following their father for years, taking hard knocks along with his lessons; however, they didn’t have years to get the new human in fighting shape, they’d months at the most. More likely it would be only weeks before a job came up they’d have to take, and Castiel would refuse to be left behind. 

It took a few rounds of rock/paper/scissors to come to an acceptable arrangement, but it was eventually decided Sam was the better person to take over Castiel’s physical conditioning and strength training. They went running together, something Dean was more than happy to blow off especially when they went out early in the morning. They followed the looping track that went around the bunker and its outlying property, never straying too far from home base. Circle it a few times and the miles would add up.

When running with Sam Castiel felt the need to try to fill up the silence with conversation, which came progressively harder the longer the run, and he still scrambled for appropriate topics. Often he struggled to keep up when the taller man’s long strides put distance between them. It made him feel competitive, a rather foreign feeling when applied to the Winchesters, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. He could only hope to learn and never truly compete with either brother.

The first morning Castiel decided he would run alone he rose very early and crept out of the bunker, shoes in his hand. He didn’t want to wake either of the brothers. Sam might want to come with him. Dean might insist he not go alone. While he needed the two of them he didn’t need them all the time.

Dean looked annoyed and Sam amused he entered the kitchen later.

“Told you he didn’t vanish,” Sam threw at his brother who appeared very irritated with his eggs.

Dean grunted without looking at the ex-angel, “Next time leave a frigging note or something, Cas.”

Castiel bristled at the implication he needed to check in before doing something as simple as a run, but Sam shook his head at him and he remained silent.

So he left a note each morning, just the word “Running” and a number indicating how many miles he planned for that day; it was as good an estimate as he could provide for how long he’d be gone. Sometimes he took longer, slowing to navigate puddles if it had rained, perhaps deviating from the worn path to kick through some leaves as autumn progressed. 

At first running had seemed like a pointless, even boring, endeavor to Castiel. All that frenetic motion and he didn’t actually go anywhere significant. After a while, however, he began to appreciate the exercise, even enjoy it. The way his body responded so well to his commands but, at the same time, warned him if he pushed too hard. 

He learned his calves and thighs could burn in a way that had nothing to do with heat. Sweat gathered at his hairline and under his arms, keeping him cool. His lungs expanded and contracted heavier and harder, the whoosh of his breath loud in his ears, as he went up a hill. His feet automatically stuttered to control his speed if he descended too quickly.

His body knew what to do, it didn’t have to be taught. He could trust it in a way he never could before.

He could be alone in his head when he ran and the silence didn’t bother him. He could simply be present in the moment, think of nothing at all as his feet placed themselves where they needed to go without conscious direction. He ran in silence, no distraction of an iPod like Sam preferred. The thud of his shoes hitting hard packed dirt, the crunch of gravel, the snap and crackle of leaves and small sticks underfoot as he went the only noise.

But working out was only part of Castiel’s training. After a great deal of macho posturing that ended in shootout on the firing range Sam also took the lead on teaching Castiel on the use of most of the firearms. The elder Winchester conceded, with only a bit of griping, because Sam really was a better shot with the pistols. However, Dean insisted he be the one to show Castiel how to field strip, clean, and reassemble every gun in the armory, in addition to instructing him how to snipe which, to everyone’s surprise, Cas took to quite readily.

Castiel liked the steady focus of sniping, picking locations around the bunker’s exterior from which he would position himself and take out the targets Dean arranged at varying distances. Flat on the ground braced against a log, half draped over a crumbling stone wall at the eastern boundary of the property, once even climbing up a tree to settle into the crook between a large limb and the trunk then shooting up a hill. 

It was useful and appealing, picking enemies off at a distance before they even knew you were on scene, and he’d didn’t understand why the brothers didn’t do it more often. 

“Bullets won’t kill vamps, Cas,” Dean pointed out.

“Make dead man’s blood bullets then,” Cas retorted. “You don’t have to get so close and risk a bite to stun them with an injection then.”

Dean’s raised his finger and his mouth opened as though in protest. Then closed. Opened.

“Silver bullet dipped in lamb’s blood for djinn,” Castiel continued, “Or the victim’s blood for a siren. Brass for rakshasas. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to put a devil’s trap on every bullet. In fact we could-” He was interrupted by the loud racking of Dean’s own rifle. 

“What fun would it be to take out everything from a hundred yards away?” Dean muttered as shouldered his gun. “S’good idea though.”

Castiel’s smug look earned him a punch in the shoulder, but it wasn’t hard. Once they found a spot for practice Dean knelt next to where Castiel crouched, one shoulder braced against a steady oak and an elbow propped on his knee to keep steady. 

“In an ideal world you make sure you got at least two brace points, Cas” Dean was adamant on certain points, drilling then into Cas’ mind time and again. “If you don’t have a bipod you make do, use your body, any other stable surface or your shot will go wild and the sons of bitches will know you’re there.”

“I remember,” Castiel said quietly as he slid his finger along the trigger guard and slowed his breath. Dean repeated himself often and sometimes Castiel found it annoying, but he also knew he would never set up his stance to shoot without automatically checking to see if he was braced before firing.

Of course Dean said he should always do that in an ideal world, and they didn’t live in one. When hunting he would not always have the luxury.

“You’re not zeroing the scope,” Dean reminded him quietly.

Castiel muttered back, “The target’s not far enough away to worry about bullet drop too much.”

“Good point.” Dean peered through his binoculars at the target he’d arranged across the field. “Not worried about the wind?”

“Again, negligible for the distance,” Castiel responded. He saw in his periphery Dean’s head dip up and down in an approving nod.

“Alright, when you’re ready. Remember: check your breathing, fire between heartbeats.”

“I remember,” he said automatically but was still mindful to pay attention to his heart rate, waiting for that fraction of a second between the down and up beat of his heart that would give him the steadiest shot, mindful that the motion of his own body, no matter how still he held it, could cause the gun to sway and ruin the shot. The greater the distance the greater the effect any tremor or unsteadiness would have.

His shot hit within the circle marked as the kill zone on the target.

“Standing,” Dean said instead of congratulating him. Castiel moved to stand and took the shot again, this stance less steady than before but he still landed the shot, although it was closer to the edge of the acceptable kill zone than the center.

“Again, Cas,” Dean said firmly. He took another shot and finally Dean nodded. “Alright, stress firing now, get moving.” The elder Winchester picked up his own rifle, held it at ready position across his chest and started moving, Castiel close at his heels.

Castiel hated stress firing. Dean made him run, almost sprint, to raise his heart rate then demanded he take a hasty shot with little time to sink into a solid stance or enough time to calm his breathing and heart. But Dean was adamant that you didn’t always have the luxury of time to calm down during a hunt. Learning to set up and take a shot then move on quickly was crucial.

When Castiel dropped to his preferred prone position after running the length of the field and back again his hands weren’t as steady as he preferred. It was frustrating, but Dean was right. Time wasn’t money in this job. Time was life and he wouldn’t have a limitless supply of when hunting to get his stance perfect, his shot absolutely centered, his heartrate down. He just had to practice, practice, practice until it was automatic. Until his body knew the drill as easily and naturally as it did running each morning.

Still...knowing and doing were two very different things and it didn’t help Castiel’s frustration when his shot went wide then a second just as badly. “Damnit,” he growled and his third was only the slightest of improvements. “I’ll never get this.”

Dean simply grunted and took two shots himself that nicely grouped near the center of the target. Castiel was not allowed time to appreciate his skill as they both stood up, rifles at ready, and started jogging again. 

“Dude, for someone who’s a million years old you’re fucking impatient. It takes time to get it down,” Dean reminded him. 

“I understand value of repetition and practice,” Castiel grunted as he stumbled then righted himself to keep on Dean’s left and two paces behind him. “It doesn’t mean I accept my current failures easily.”

Dean chuckled breathlessly, “Whine whine, let’s go.”

They ran towards the southern perimeter of the area marked out as their firing range today and vaulted over a rotted log, immediately turned to crouch and brace on it, fired, then moved on. Castiel followed Dean dutifully as they progressed from a steady jog to flat run and darted through a variety of locations and stances, firing from behind a tree, crawling along a fenceline on their stomachs and elbows, navigating a muddy a ditch.

Every time Dean hit his mark and with almost no hesitation. Castiel’s accuracy declined incrementally the longer the exercise continued his shots wobbling around the perimeter of the kill zone on each target, but staying inside. However, his last shot was dead on; he suspected it might have been luck as his arms ached and twitched from exertion, but he didn’t care. He’d markedly improved from when they’d first started nearly 2 weeks ago.

Even Dean noted it as they both stumbled to a halt when all the ammo in their pockets was gone. “That last one, Cas, nice!” he gasped and smacked the ex-angel on the back.

“I thought you didn’t run,” Castiel responded as he dropped to his knees on the dry grass, winded. 

“I do when some bastard is trying to kill me,” Dean replied before he put the rifle down and bent over with his hands on his knees. “Holy shit, that was hard.”

Dean’s admission of fatigue made him feel better; he wasn’t the only one who struggled even if Dean didn’t show it as easily as he did. “Maybe you should come running with me sometime,” he offered.

Dean snorted and waved a hand dismissively without raising his head as he tried to suck down enough air to recover. After a couple of minutes he stood straight, hands braced at his lower back, as he tried to stretch. 

“Oof. Nah, I get enough exercise hunting and whipping you and Sammy’s asses sparring.”

That might very well be true. Sam was the bigger and more physically intimidating of the two, but Dean was the superior fighter. While Sam was more like a boxer, relying on his formidable muscle and reach to overwhelm an opponent, Dean was quite simply _vicious._

*****

“Goddamnit, Cas, you're not a brick wall anymore!” Dean barked, a few days later, as Sam once again knocked the ex-angel to the ground. “Quit charging head-on like you are! Do it again!” 

From his position by the heavy bag Sam had hung Dean directed the two men sparring. A chin up bar, mats, and weights with a bench that could be set level or to incline rounded out their gym, which was just one of the larger storage rooms they’d cleared out. 

Castiel grumbled something indistinct under his breath as he pushed off the floor and glared at both brothers before taking up what he felt was a proper fighting stance again: fists up, knees bent, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

“Ok, Karate Kid,” Dean mocked, “Do it again, try take Sam off his feet.” Castiel circled and was matched each step by Sam. “Quit pussyfooting around, man!”

Sam’s face was almost apologetic as Castiel lunged at him again and the larger man turned to the side, hooked an arm under the ex-angel’s outstretched one to haul up and over, and flipped Castiel onto the mat again. 

Dean made a disgusted noise, and Sam immediately leaned over to hold out his hand, muttering to the prone ex-angel, “I said he’d be hard on you.”

Castiel grunted and let Sam pull him to his feet for what felt like the millionth time. His whole body ached unpleasantly but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as his pride. He knew he was slower and sloppy compared to the brothers, definitely compared to how he used to be. Although he was still strong, still fast, he was not supernaturally so anymore and his previous fighting style no longer suited his limitations very well.

As Dean said, he was not a brick wall, an immoveable object or an unstoppalbe force that could bury opponents under divine relentlessness and strength. He took a hard blow as painfully as any other human and certainly worse than the Winchesters who literally walked off broken bones. 

It was both physically painful and mentally humbling to be so easily knocked around by the brothers. They were taking it _easy_ on him too, even if it was hard to believe given how much his body ached each day after sparring. But Castiel didn’t beg off or shy away from training, no matter how much his weaknesses vexed him. He was stubbornly determined to learn to fight as hard, as well, and as long as the Winchesters.

In at least one small area he was better than either of them. Put a practice stick in his hand and he could deftly ring both Winchester’s bells with hard smacks to the midsection, throat, and side of the head. Dean refused to let Castiel spar with blades; too much could go wrong as the three of them worked together to assess the ex-angel’s skills and needs.

Or as Dean put it, “You know what a bitch it is to get blood out of clothes without mojo? Anyway you gotta learn to put up your dukes like the rest of us mud monkeys.”

So Castiel practiced the forms that had been drilled into him over millennia alone most evenings before bed, bare feet gliding across the floor, silver blades flashing under dim light in deadly, precise arcs. With a knife, a blade, a sword in his head he was deadly.

Empty hand-to-hand combat however? To say he was could be better would be kind.

Castiel found himself once again taken to the ground by Sam, and the bigger man held him down with a hard knee on his chest. 

“Goddamnit, Cas,” Dean barked. “If Sam was a monster you’d be dead!” Dean was often frustrated at Castiel’s learning curve in sparring and tended to yell a lot. Sam reminded the ex-angel nearly every day it wasn’t personal.

It certainly felt personal when Dean shouted and swore at him.

“You want to be a hunter for more than 15 minutes you better learn how to fucking fight your way out of any situation, Cas!” Dean growled, his face reddening as he loomed at Sam’s back and glared at the ex-angel pinned to the floor. 

Castiel squirmed under the hard weight on his sternum and both brothers’ disappointment at his work today. He swung, trying to land a punch into Sam’s ribs, but the other man simply twisted to the side and it was a glancing blow that left no damage. 

“You fight and you scratch and you bite!” Dean snarled, “You do whatever you gotta do to get out alive!” Castiel tried to get a leg up to get Sam off him but the big man clamped just above his knee and squeezed brutally. 

Castiel would never understand how something as silly sounding as a charley horse could be so extraordinarily debilitating, and he couldn’t stop the pained shout that burst from him. 

Dean shook his head and pushed Sam in the shoulder before he turned away, shaking his head. “He’s done. Let him up.”

Sam immediately backed off and the sympathetic look he gave Castiel rankled the ex-angel badly. He was tired and sore and and angry with himself. He could do this. He needed to do this.

“No. Again,” he grunted, waving his hand at Sam in a “come on” gesture.

Dean rolled his eyes. ”Give it up, Cas.”

Castiel ignored him and flapped his hand at Sam once more before taking his stance again, even though most of his muscles trembled from exhaustion. 

Sam glanced between Castiel and his brother, shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said as he dug in, planted firm as an oak and opened his arms though daring his opponent to try to take him down again. 

“It will be your metaphorical funeral,” Castiel grumbled, determined. The amused look Sam gave him only served to aggravate him further. His training was not funny; it was impossibly important and tiring and frustrating. He would improve. He would fight, he would hunt and he would protect the Winchesters. These thoughts served as a fierce motivator to the ex-angel. He wanted to be _useful_ again.

He moved in a circle, aware Sam matched him once more, the bigger man simply waiting him out, ready to read Castiel’s attack, his tell before he even moved, and counter it. Sam was a warrior, a survivor. Castiel was a soldier and tactician. They had strengths. They had weaknesses. Winning meant knowing each in themselves and each other.

Sam was stronger, that was certain, his reach exceeding Castiel’s by several inches. But he was slower, less flexible due to his greater muscle mass. Castiel lunged again and Sam’s arm swung down, but this time the ex-angel’s momentum disguised his feint, and he swooped under the other man’s arm. Sam swung on empty air and, before he turned around, Castiel was plastered against his back. The ex-angel flung a forearm around Sam’s neck, elbow right under his chin as his other hand slithered behind his head to grab long hair and fist it.

“GHK!” Sam gasped when Castiel sealed the the chokehold by locking his hand onto the opposite bicep.

“C’mon Sammy, you know how to get out of a that!” Dean exhorted, clapping his hands to encourage his brother.

Castiel tightened his grip when Sam suddenly lunged backwards and slammed Castiel against the closest wall. He gave a pained grunt but didn’t let go. Sam did it a second time, and his head banged so hard into the concrete Castiel thought he understand why a head injury made people “see stars.” Despite the pain in his skull, the definite ache in his back he was certain would only be worse in a few hours, he refused to let go.

Sam wobbled as his knees unlocked and the ex-angel used it to his advantage, kicking the back of one and they fell to the floor in a heap. Sam’s height mattered little now and Castiel squirmed, moving his legs around Sam’s waist from behind as he firmed his grip on his neck. 

“Submit,” he gritted out as Sam’s rolled and tried to dislodge him then slammed a meaty fist down on one of his legs in an attempt break the ankle lock now secured over his stomach

“C’mon, Sammy, c’mon, crush him!” Dean cheered as his younger brother bucked and writhed, attempting to throw the barnacle Castiel had become off his back.

“Sam...submit!” he said louder over Dean’s yelling. 

“Don’t do it, Sam!” Dean yelled pointing at his brothers’ flushing face. “C’mon, you can break this!”

“Shut up!” Castiel gasped and jerked his head around to glare at the elder brother a moment before caught he caught the rake of nails down his face. “Argh! Son of a bitch!” He flexed his grip harder and the hand that tried to claw his face a second time slackened then hit the mat beside them and they fell sideways.

“He's out! Cas, let go! He’s out!” Dean hollered, his own hand slapping the mat repeatedly.

He held only a moment longer before unwinding his arms to palm at his face as Dean yanked Sam over so he was no longer half-crushing Castiel. 

“Rise and shine, sleeping ugly,” Dean teased, slapping one of his brother’s cheek then the other.

“Nngh,” the younger man groaned even though he kept his eyes shut. “He got me?”

Dean sat back on his heels and gave the ex-angel currently scrubbing the scrapes on his cheek an appraising once-over. “What can I say? Sneaky McCheaterson’s got a mean chokehold.”

“You’re the one who told me to scratch and bite if need be,” Castiel retorted hotly.

Dean grinned. "Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He pushed to his feet and, ignoring his gigantic brother still a little dizzy on the mat, offered his hand to the ex-angel. “Nice job, Cas. First beer’s on me.”

Castiel gave his hand over and nearly stumbled when Dean hauled him up. He locked his knees to prevent his legs from wobbling in exhaustion and swiped at his sweaty face again. “Of course it is, seeing as you still won’t get me a credit card of my own.”

Sam sat up and flapped at his own sweaty shirt, complaining, “What? He got in one good shot out of a hundred and gets treated?”

“I can put your drink in a baby bottle if you like, Sam,” Castiel grunted as he limped towards the stairs.

The dead silence at his back made him wonder if he’d overstepped, but the bark of Dean’s laughter a few seconds later reassured him and he hurried away. He really did want that beer. And a shower. And some aspirin really really badly.

“When did he get so sassy?” Sam wondered as he heaved up from the floor and watched the ex-angel disappear upstairs.

Dean was still chuckling, “Pfft, since always man. Guess you weren’t paying attention. Now pay up.” He held out his hand.

“Jerk, I don’t have my wallet on me. And screw you if you think that counts! He got lucky!” Sam protested as he grabbed a towel and wiped down his face and neck.

“Nah, nah, trust me, he had the Eye of the Tiger today, you saw it.” Dean nodded, almost to himself. “He’s gonna get this.”

“You and your Eye of the Tiger crap.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, the Rocky theme does not a warrior’s philosophy make.”

“Shut your whore mouth!”

When Castiel came back down to the gym after his shower he realized it would probably be a while before they left for the bar, given that Sam now suffered from severe mat burn across his forehead and Dean was shouting, purple faced and with his hand down the back of his pants, that atomic wedgies were never ever **ever** okay.


	5. Take This Broken Wing

Dean smiled as he warmed his hands over the blaze of the burning corpse. What dude didn’t like a fire on a cold night, especially with good company.

It had been a decent test run, Castiel’s first official hunt as a human. The pings on the freaky meter that brought the men to Fort Collins turned out to be the ghost of a particularly sneaky former SS agent. He’d spent decades living in town under a different name, quietly collecting Social Security while he sent anonymous death threats and the occasional poorly constructed pipe bomb to synagogues through the Midwest. Thankfully none had ever detonated, except the one that went off in his lap and rid the world of the human shaped sack of shit.

It all came to light after the old fart kicked it, his house having been thoroughly explored by the police during investigation into the explosion, and the town basically said good riddance to bad rubbish and razed his place to the ground.

Once dead old Fritz was on a much worse tear than he’d ever managed in life. A local temple burned and 2 city employees who oversaw the demolition of his home had turned up in pieces scattered throughout the county. The Jewish county coroner came damn close to a bad end too before the Winchesters and Castiel intervened.

Turned out Cas knew a few damn nifty Michnaic Hebrew chants that threw the Nazi bastard into fits long enough for Sam to bust the coffin open while Dean upended a box of kosher salt into the grave then lobbed in a Molotov the moment his brother cleared the side.

“L'chayim,” he quipped with a snarky grin as the ghost fizzled away.

Castiel glared from where he rested at the base of the tombstone against which he’d been thrown. “You’re not supposed to wish a ghost good health, Dean.”

“Hey, it’s the only Yiddish I know!” he protested as he rubbed his hands together and stepped a bit closer to the flames to get nice and toasty. 

The eye rolls Sam and Castiel traded behind his back were well matched.

“Whatever,” Castiel grunted as he pushed up. Tried to push up, anyway. When he raised his left arm his head cocked to the side as he examined it. “Well, that explains the pain.”

“Ah, crap, Dean!” Sam said in an urgent tone as he crouched by his friend’s side and carefully took hold of his forearm. “Think he broke his wrist.”

“I didn’t break it, Herr Brüggemann did,” the ex-angel crabbed as he pulled his arm back to cradle it protectively against his chest. “It’s fine.” Getting injured on his first job with the brothers was irksome, and he’d no wish to have it reflect poorly on his performance. He knew he was being evaluated, everything was a test. Especially how he handled pain because it was part of the job, a huge part. “Walk it off, right?”

You take a hit, you push through, you dish out more. You take everything thrown at you and you throw back harder. That’s how Winchesters did it, and it worked, so that’s what he would do.

Dean crouched on his other side, his previously easy post-hunt celebratory smile gone and in its place a frown. “Walking it off is something only me and Sam get to do, Cas. Rookies don’t, so let me see it.”

Scowling mulishly, but unable to refuse the order Castiel presented his arm to Dean, jaw clenched tight as the elder Winchester turned it this way then that, holding the joint stable except for a few slow, small experimental motions that made Castiel hiss despite his best efforts to stay quiet.

“Yup, busted, but no messier than we’ve had ourselves, right Sammy?” Dean tossed a small smile, albeit a tight one, at his brother. “We gotcha.” Dean shrugged out of his jacket then his flannel before Castiel could comment; Sam immediately slid one arm behind the ex-angel’s back to sit him up straight as his brother used the shirt to fashion a sling that bound his damaged arm to his chest.

It was all done with few words and such practiced ease, the motions automatic and familiar, and it indicated they’d done this countless times.

“No big deal, Cas” Sam assured him as he helped get the ex-angel to his feet with arm around his waist. “This is pretty easy to fix, we have plaster and everything at the bunker. No need for a hospital.”

All three of the men has severe aversions to the very notion of a hospital, the least of which was how messy faked insurance could be, so Castiel was more than happy to skip a visit.

“At least it wasn’t your shoulder, Dean can tell you what a bitch that is,” Sam continued, his tone reassuring and Castiel was grateful for the distraction as it gave him something to focus on besides how his legs felt strangely unsteady as they headed back to the car. Why they felt so unwilling to support him he didn’t know, only his arm was injured.

“Pretty sure he invented some new swears last time I had to pop it back in,” Sam continued as he stooped to fold the unresisting ex-angel into the car.

Castiel settled into the backseat of the Impala as the brothers tossed shovels into the trunk. Now that the fight was over, his adrenalin rushed fading, the pain was undeniable. He’d been injured before, but never in this way when he was so fundamentally present in his body and not a single sensation was muted by divine power. It was equally fascinating and bothersome, the way he couldn’t ignore it, the way it colored over everything else he did and was in that moment.

Every inhaled breath, every thought about the job, determining much sleep he could hope to get in the car, speculating how soon he might need to eat again, how thirsty he was weighed against how often Dean would stop on the way back home to allow bathroom breaks. So much happened in him all at once, all the time, and at the moment every bit of it was tinged with the fire in his arm that carried no actual heat.

Sam flumped into the passenger seat and dug through the glovebox, rattling tapes around until he found an orange pill bottle and handed over the seat to Castiel. “Might not hurt that much right now, but you’re going to need those really soon when it start swelling and really starts to suck.”

Castiel gave him a look of disbelief as he struggled to open the bottle with one hand. Might not hurt that much? What he was experiencing right now was awful, despite not being completely debilitating.

“Totally serious, Cas, once shock wears off it’s gonna be worse. Two of them.” Sam reached over and twisted open the bottle for his friend and tapped out two pills into his hand then passed over a water bottle.

The ex-angel tossed back the pills and chased them half the bottle just as Dean settled behind the wheel. His eyes flicked to the man in the backseat then to his brother tossing the bottle back into the glovebox.

“Those the Vicodin?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded and slouched in his seat as best as his long legs allowed, ready to nap on the drive back. He could fall asleep practically standing up, given the opportunity.

Dean started the car and pulled away from the cemetery, intent on getting out of town ASAP. “You think that’s necessary?”

Castiel shifted in the back to stretch his legs and lean against the door, settling in to his preferred position where he could see a part of Dean’s profile as he drove . It took him a few tries before he decided no matter how he sat his arm was going to ache and burn and twinge and inflict a whole variety of unpleasant sensations on him until the painkillers began working.

“Yeah,” Sam scrubbed a hand down his face and failed to stifle a yawn.

“You sure?”

“The hell, Dean? He’s got a broken arm. He needs something until we can set it,” Sam complained as she gave his brother a look of disbelief.

“He broke his wrist, not his arm. There’s a difference,” the elder Winchester argued.

“ _HE_ can hear both of you,” Castiel pointed out from the backseat. “I already took them so there’s no point discussing it.” He’d no idea why Dean took issue with the painkillers considering they were in the car for this exact reason, hunting injuries, and both brothers had tossed them back after jobs.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the man in back, his expression unreadable in the dark, before he returned his attention to getting onto the highway and 10 miles over the speed limit.

“Whatever,” he muttered as he turned on the radio, “Just saying he’s new to this, they could knock him for a loop.”

“And he’s going to need that because it’s going to hurt like a bitch setting it,” Sam pointed out, the bitchface he sported wasted as his brother didn’t look at him but kept his eyes on the road for once, his expression stony.

Castiel kept his mouth shut, as he’d no wish to make the unfortunate situation worse by arguing with either brother. He’d simply bear the discomfort in quiet, as all consuming as it felt at the moment. Sam did not seem particularly upset by his injury, which reassured the ex-angel it must not be terribly serious. Dean, however, was more agitated even if he kept his voice calm and level. Castiel recognized that tone, although if he didn’t hear it often. Usually when Dean was unhappy or upset he resorted to yelling or relentless sarcasm. It was when an upset Dean was strangely calm that it Castiel felt anxious.

So his first hunt had not gone flawlessly, it was no crime. Sam and Dean often complained how hunts never went the way they expected or wanted, and the mark of a good hunter was to roll with it, adapt, and overcome. Which Castiel had done. If a broken wrist was the price to be paid for it then he wouldn’t complain, at least not out loud. It could always be much, much worse, he knew that.

Like that time his brother exploded him. Or when he’d activated that angel banishing sigil carved into his chest and nearly fried his vessel. Or when Raphael kicked him around like a soccer ball. Or when he binged on all those Purgatory souls then vomited them back up a few months later.

Why that particular thought struck him as funny he had no idea, but it did. It was horrible, awful, definitely in the top 3 of all the misguided and rotten things he’d done in his life. How on earth had he ever thought it was the right route to take? It was such a terrible idea, swallowing souls. Then puking them right back out. He _ate_ the souls of monsters. It was just flat out ridiculous. He laughed. Silenced himself. Then snorted at memory of seeing that portrait of Crowley in hell while they made the deal.

“Something funny back there, chuckles?”

“Huh?” was all that came out. He’d meant to say an actual word. He raised his head from from the slick black leather of the seat and _wow that felt really interesting_. “Mmmm,” Castiel hummed and licked his lips. “I think..I think th' painkillers are takin' effect.”

“Awesome,” Dean said in a voice that indicated he actually thought the opposite.

“It is,” Castiel nodded. “It is...awesome.” Then he nodded again because it felt so strange but in a nice way, like his head felt both very light and rather heavy at the same time. And his wrist. “It doesn’t hurt that much anymore.” He tried to lift his arm in the sling without thinking then winced when it twinged sharply. “Ow, nevermind. It still hurts, only less. A lot less.” He nodded again a few more times for good measure and fumbled with the cap on his water bottle for a few seconds managing to open it.

Dean sighed, facing front with a grim expression, although he cast a fleeting and sullen look at his snoozing baby brother in the passenger seat. “That’s why they’re called painkillers, Cas.”

“Mm, aptly named then,” he agreed before sliding down to stretch out more fully. He couldn’t see Dean’s profile from this position but it felt sooooo much better to be lying flat than propped against the door. He groaned low and long at the relieved stretched of his back and bent his legs.

“Hey, quit doing...whatever the hell you’re doing back there!” Dean snapped. Sam snorted in his sleep.

“M’laying down,” Castiel muttered.

“Oh...well, boots off the leather then. You weren’t born in a barn,” Dean chided in more subdued tone.

“Wasn’t born a’tall,” Castiel responded in a dreamy tone as he raised one foot then the other to tug the laces loose then toed the boots off. “Jus’ one day. Poof. Existence.”

“Swell, great, frigging fantastic, Cas. Hey, why don’t you go to sleep? I need to concentrate on driving,” he suggested in a tone that more like an order.

Not that he needed to give one as a light snore drifted from the back seat a few seconds later.

Patching Castiel up after they arrived at the bunker the following morning wasn’t much of an ordeal. Another dose of pills provided by Sam made his discomfort manageable and the ex-angel’s sheer stubbornness took care of the rest. He lay compliant and still on his bed as the brothers set his wrist, although the spasm in his face betrayed he wasn’t nearly as stoic as he seemed. While unfocused his eyes watched the proceedings with some interest he asked the occasional question about the process, how long he would need to wear it, and groaned in annoyance when told 6 weeks.

“Yeah, well, you’ll live,” Dean gruffly assured him as he wound the roll of wet plaster around the batting on his arm, leaving his fingers and thumb free and part of his palm. “Sammy and me both both lived through gimping around with parts busted a lot worse. Least you can still use your hand. Trying breaking a leg and not being able to wear pants for 2 months, then you can bitch.”

Castiel swung his eyes from the ceiling to Dean, brow pinched as he frowned. “When did you break your leg?” he asked quietly, his voice a bit blurred from the medication. He didn’t remember that, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the drugs fault.

Dean shrugged with one shoulder as he ran his hand around the cast to smooth out any ridges. “S’not important.”

“Leviathan, Cas,” Sam offered from his position holding Castiel’s arm out straight, easily ignoring the glare his brother shot at him.

“...oh,” was all the ex-angel offered in return before he turned his eyes back up to the ceiling.

“Alright, you’re set. Uh, no pun intended,” Dean said with a bit of forced cheer in his voice as he trimmed a bit of excess plaster and padding from around Castiel’s thumb to ensure he had an adequate range of motion, then nodded for his brother to settle the ex-angel’s arm down on the pillow positioned under his elbow. “Relax, sleep or whatever. Just don’t move that around for about an hour while it dries then you’re good to go.” The elder Winchester piled the medical supplies haphazardly back into the med kit and headed for the door.

Sam remained seated by the bed, “It’ll ache for while but not as bad as before. Still, let me know if you need anything for it.”

Dean’s voice was low, “Sammy, let him be.” He jerked his head at the open door. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, alright. Rest up, Cas, we’ll do movies or burgers or something later.” Sam’s patted the ex-angel’s shoulder as he rose, and the other man made a noncommittal noise, still looking a bit distractedly at the ceiling.

The door had barely shut behind them before Dean rounded on his brother. “What the hell you doing bringing up Leviathan to him, Sam? You know he blames himself for _everything_ that came out of that whole fucking mess!”

“It wasn’t Cas’ fault that dick Edgar threw you into a car!” Sam’s expression was indignant, and he didn’t back down from the finger his older brother poked into his chest.

“I know that, and you know that, but we both know Cas has a martyr complex that would make Jesus jealous!” Dean hissed, his eyes darting to Castiel’s closed door, which was pretty pointless considering his volume didn’t lower one bit.

Sam sighed, “Alright, you might have a point.”

“He might not talk about it, but you can damn well bet he’s also beating his own ass up about Metatron and that whole mess. So don’t remind him about all the other shit on top of that!” Dean’s expression was vehement.

“Fine, okay, sorry. You know I wasn’t trying to upset him, but I’m not gonna lie to the guy either just to spare his feelings. He asks a question I’m going to shoot straight with him, Dean,” Sam replied. “There’s been enough lies between all of us.” The stubborn set of his jaw matched Dean’s.

“And another thing,” Dean added as she shifted the medi kit under his arm. “Don’t give him anymore Vicodin. Aspirin or Tylenol only.”

“What? Why?” Sam’s head tilted at a quizzical angle, and Dean rolled his eyes at how both Castiel and Sam seemed to be picking up each other’s bad habits. Castiel with the puppy eye routine now and Sam with the friggin’ head tilt.

Dean’s gaze skirted to the side. “‘Cause he needs to nut up and learn to deal with pain. First time’s a freebie, but that’s it.”

Sam’s look was skeptical. “Dean, what did I _just_ say about lying? It was literally 10 seconds ago!”

The eye roll he received in response was monumental. “Christ, fiiiiiiine,” Dean groused before jerking his head in the direction of the stairs. “We’re both going to need a drink for this. C’mon, Sammy.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Sam queried as he followed his brother.

“Nope.” Dean’s mouth popped on the word as he started up the stairs. “Ok, look you and me were on the outs-”

“Which time?”

“Shut the hell up. Anyway we weren’t talking. Again. And Zachariah showed up and-”

“Zachariah??” Sam exclaimed.

“Do you want me to tell you or do you want to keep interrupting me??” Dean snapped. After a few seconds of Sam’s silence, “Anyway, Zach thought it would the best sort of mindfuck to shoot me 5 years into the future and…”

Castiel blinked slowly as their voices faded away, along with the tramp of their boots up the stairs, before he gave in to the narcotics’ urging to drift off.

Zachariah. There was a name he’d not heard in years. He’d ask Dean about that when he woke up, if he remembered. Zachariah was dead, after all, there was nothing he could do to harm them anymore.


	6. Put Me In, Coach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt it was time for a bit of Dean's POV, so here it is.

“Alright, Sam you’ve got the side door, I’ll take the back. Cas, gimme the ashes.”

The ex-angel dutifully rummaged in the trunk to retrieve the banged up thermos that held the remnants of the skunk’s cabbage, saffron, and trillian they’d burned the day before. He watched as the brothers rubbed their hands gray then raked their fingers through their hair, over cheeks and necks, before wiping them down their jackets. Castiel took the container back as Sam checked his gun while Dean slipped another knife into his pocket and hefted the machete.

The ex-angel fumbled only a bit in dusting himself, an old trick to throw the vampire’s ability to scent them and handed down from John Winchester himself. He’d become increasingly adept at working around the stiff cast the last few weeks, but it was still a struggle not to have full use of his arm, his dexterity hindered.

“You don’t need to do that,” Dean said as he pulled the thermos away before Castiel could shake out another palmful.

Castiel watched as Dean shoved the ashes back in the trunk and picked up the sniper rifle to hold it out to the fallen angel with a flat expression.

“Dean, no,” Castiel protested, refusing the rifle. “Sam and you both said there may be as many as half a dozen in the nest. You need every hand you can get.”

“And you’ve only got one so…” Dean didn’t bother to elaborate, only held up the rifle with the steely expression that Castiel knew meant the man was not going to budge. He looked over at Sam with a pleading expression, and the taller man opened his mouth.

“Not a democracy, Sammy,” Dean cut him off without looking at his younger brother. “Cas is cover in case any bloodsuckers escape when we clear the nest. Downwind from the house, take the high ground, two-”

“Two brace points, I remember,” the ex-angel snapped as he yanked the rifle from Dean’s grasp with a scowl. Despite his limited mobility, his sniping had continued to improve and he’d found the cast a sometimes practical perch on which to rest the barrel, depending on his firing position. It added a bit of nice stability for his shots that almost, but hadn’t quite, made up for it being a general annoyance. “I’m not stupid. I’ll signal when I’m set up and you’re clear to enter.” 

Castiel crammed two clips of dead man’s blood coated bullets in his pocket before stalking off, but not before he cast a glare over his shoulder at the brothers. A grumble of Enochian floated on the air as he disappeared into the grey woods that encircled the farm they were going to raid in the early light of dawn..

Sam looked at Dean with raised eyebrows. “Pretty sure he said the goat fucker thing.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed and slipped another clip of ammo in his front pocket. “Pouty son of a bitch.”

“You’re benching him, of course he’s pissed.” Sam grabbed two flashlights and checked they were charged before handing one off.

“Hey, cover fire is a good idea, and he’s gotten damn steady with the rifle; you’ve seen him on the range,” Dean argued back quietly as he locked up the car then hefted his machete.

“Yeah, whatever, he’s better with a blade than either of us, even now,” Sam muttered at Dean’s shoulder as they started their slow stalk around the property to do a final sweep of the area before separating to their respective points of entry. “He’d be good with vamps and you know it. Quit babying him.”

“I am not babying him,” Dean growled. “He’s got a busted wing, Sammy. That’s a liability.”

The taller of the two clipped Dean in the shoulder, none too gently, “I’m not Cas, Dean, I know your bullshit, man. He’d doing good, better every day, quit treating him like he’s gonna break.”

Dean rolled his eyes, “Can we save this for our next appointment, Dr. Phil? There’s things that need killing.”

“Asshole,” Sam muttered, shouldering past his older brother to take up his position by the secondary point of entry to the farmhouse, lockpick tools already out. Since only crappy movie vamps actually died in sunlight and their kind only got sunburn, the boys determined a quiet entrance was best. Hopefully the brothers could catch the nest off guard while it was sleeping, and a door kicking, guns blazing, noisy entrance would defeat the point of the ambush. Sam bent to the task, keeping one eye open.

Dean crouched at the back door, eyed the old lock, and shook his head. Piece of pie. If he and Sammy could quietly gank the monsters during naptime Castiel wouldn’t have to do anything except play lookout. Just a few more weeks and then he’d consider letting the sulky little bastard fight again. In the meantime, he’d sleep better knowing the ex-angel was alright and not fucking up himself on some crazy quest to prove he was useful. He didn’t need to prove anything, as far as Dean was concerned. But he was new to the whole humanity thing and shouldn’t be pushing himself so hard.

Dean huffed under his breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair when the lock clicked quietly open under his own tools then crammed the kit back in his sock. He heard the faint loon-like whistle from the woods to the west that indicated Castiel was giving him and Sam the signal to breach the house together. 

Their formerly feathery companion had taken a shine to call signals and had quickly adapted to Winchester’s unique blend of standard military hand signals and their own gestures and facial expressions to silently communicate on the job. Castiel had taken it upon himself to develop a system of whistles to indicate various monsters and organize battle plans on the fly and when they were out of each other’s sight lines. It had come in handy on the two simple hunts they’d let him tag along on since his broke his wrist, each time playing lookout and getting progressively crankier.

Dean slowly pushed the door open wide enough to slip in, machete cocked and raised in one hand, his pistol at the ready position in the other. His ears strained to catch the sounds of his baby brothers’ footsteps but Sam could be damn quiet when he needed to be, despite his giant feet.

When he encountered the first red splash on the hallway floor Dean quickly turned left just in time to see his brother quietly lay down a headless body on the kitchen floor. Upon spotting his brother Sam cupped one hand by his ear then looked up at the ceiling and held up two fingers. Dean nodded and took point as they headed towards the stairs, ready to take on at least two more on the floor above. He winced when an old floorboard creaked loudly, no matter how carefully he tread. His brother froze at his back and they both stood there in silence, listening for any indication the creature upstairs heard it too. When a good 30 seconds passed without further sound Dean slid onto the landing and quickly peered around a corner. Nothing in the hallway he could see but there was a faint sound that both brothers determined came from behind a door on their left. 

Sniffing...no sniffling.

“Pl-please d-don’t...I h-have a ba-baby,” a female voice whimpered. An inhuman hiss responded and the desperate pleading trailed off into a quick gasps.

So much for the slow and stealthy approach. Dean jerked his head at his brother and moved aside as Sam reared back one giant boot and kicked the door in as Dean leveled his gun.

“Let her go, ugly!” he shouted at the male vampire holding a tear streaked brunette by her hair, disgusting fangs perched just over her jugular. 

“Back off or I’ll rip her throat out!” the vamp snarled them let the razor tips of his teeth pierce her skin. The slow trickle of scarlet threatened to become a flood if the Winchesters hesitated. 

“Ok! Okay...backing off, just take it easy,” Sam said quietly as he uncocked his own gun and slowly crouched to put it on the floor. He elbowed Dean in the thigh; the elder Winchester sighed and did the same, along with his machete. It wasn’t like these were the only weapons either of them had.

“So,” Dean said easily, “You let her go and we’ll forget we found this place, sound good?” Dean grinned brightly and the captive’s watery eyes widened as how easy-going he sounded in such an insane situation. “You can scuttle off to whatever dark hole you crawled out of and we’ll go hunt something else for a bit. Sounds reasonable right?” Dean nodded at the vamp, cheeks dimpling as he felt his brother shift at his side; he knew from years of working together that Sam’s slow reach for Dean’s backup piece at the small of his older brother’s back looked entirely incidental.

The vampire chuckled, a raspy, grating noise that make his victim struggle minutely in his grasp. “Making to go meals of you three sounds better.”

A large hand slammed down on the back of each Winchester’s neck and gripped tight, nails digging in hard to immobilize them and draw strangled gasps from the brothers. Dean’s feet left the floor as he was hauled by his scruff to dangle in mid-air by the huge vampire neither brother had heard come up behind them. Sam, damn his freakishly tall legs, was at least able to keep his toes on the ground as he, too, was manhandled. Dean swung wildly, his elbow connecting with something, someone, rocksolid and all he got for his efforts was an annoyed hiss as he and his brother were dragged back towards the door.

“Take them to the kitchen,” the leader barked. “Drain them, bag it up and let’s leave before anymore nosy hunters sh-”

His last words were cut short by the explosion of the window behind him and the sudden appearance of a beautifully centered exit wound in the middle of his forehead. The vampire blinked and stumbled before keeling over to the side and dragging the sobbing brunette down with him. Sam and Dean blinked owlishly through the fine mist of blood that sprayed them. Splinters exploded from the door jam a foot to the left of Sam’s head as the bullet thunked loudly into the wooden and stopped.

Dean exchanged a wide-eyed look at his brother before they each brought up a leg to kick behind them. When the vamp holding them grunted his grip slackened for a moment and they threw themselves in opposite directions. A split second later splash of red decorated the hallway as another bullet found its mark and the jumbo sized monster went down.

“Cas,” Sam breathed as he snatched up his gun and pulled out Ruby’s knife. 

Dean grabbed his machete and scrubbed a sleeve over his sticky face. “Yup, told you he’s getting to be a hell of a shot. Ok, chop chop,” Dean chuckled to himself as he leaned over to drag the stunned vamp away from the woman by its hair, machete raised high before he brought it down with a squishing slice through its neck.

Sam did what he always did better than Dean and that was console the hysterical victim, distracting her from his brother’s gory work as Dean kicked the severed head to the opposite side of the room then stalked into the hall to decapitate the other vampire cranially ventilated by one of Castiel’s dead man’s blood bullets. As Dean swung, then swung two more times because, damn, this fucker was huge, Sam turned the woman away from the door and asked her name, did she have a number they could call, family they could contact.

Dean grunted in disgust as the head of the jumbo vamp finally separated from the body in a less than tidy way and he kicked it down hall. “Alright Sammy, looks like that’s it.” He wiped his machete clean on the leg of the body at his feet and slipped it back in the sheath hanging from his hip.

A short, sharp, high whistle followed by a longer one had both the Winchester’s heads swinging towards the broken window. “Shit,” Dean groaned. “Company.” 

Sure enough the sound of a car growling down the gravel road that lead to the isolated farmhouse reached them a few seconds later. Sam was as quick on his feet as his brother, keeping one arm tight around the brunette. 

“Listen, Lizzie, hey hey, look at me,” Sam said quietly, his voice that amazing mix of seriousness and gentle concern his older brother could never master. “I’m going to hide you, you need to keep quiet and don’t come out unless you hear me calling you by name, you got it?” She nodded jerkily and sniffed then wiped her nose on her arm as Sam quickly hurried her down the hall to the farthest room. He tucked her into a closet and covered her with a blanket hastily yanked down from a shelf.

By the time Sam joined his brother downstairs Dean was peeking out the curtains at a pickup truck trundling across the yard to park near the far edge of the front porch. He held up 2 fingers at Sam and they both quietly checked their pistols, making sure rounds were chambered, as they counted down, ready to bust out the front door and stun the pair of vamps before they even made it out of the truck.

Dean and Sam yanked the door open and rushed onto the porch, pistols leveled at the vamps in the front seat...just in time to watch the tailgate bang down and another four bloodsuckers start clambering out of the truck bed.

For a few moments the half dozen vampires peered up at the outnumbered hunters on the porch and the hunters stared back, both sides caught off guard.

“Crap,” Sam exhaled.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed grimly and his trigger finger tightened as the closest vamp hissed and coiled to leap at them.

Two sharp cracks split the morning air; at the back of the group two vamps wobbled as though clubbed then fell back into the truck bed with matching groans. 

Dean grinned at Castiel’s marksmanship. The sneaky little bastard must’ve changed positions from the east side of the property, when he took out the two on the top floor, to the north side in order to peg this group from behind. He didn’t have long to appreciate it as the monsters realized they were trapped between the hunters in front of them and someone in the woods behind them taking potshots. 

“SCATTER!” shrieked a ragged blonde female with flyaway hair and the remaining 4 members of the nest split in different directions, darting for opposites sides of the house and outlying property. Gunshots rang from several directions as Dean and Sam raced after them, firing at the vamps retreating backs and Castiel cherry picked from his hidden perch. 

Dean managed to wing one in the leg and send it tumbling ass over teakettle over the grass. He barely broke his stride as his free arm swung out in a low arc and lopped the head off on the fly, his eyes already trained on the back of the back of a dark skinned teenager who hissed over his shoulder as he ran. He couldn’t lose this vamp; Sammy could handle the other runners, those big old legs of his could eat up a football field with a few strides most days.

Dean groaned as the kid poured on the speed and darted around the barn. He slowed to a jog, unwilling to charge around a blind corner and sucked in breath as he raised his machete before he rounded the turn. Nothing there. He looked around and saw a busted down tractor about 10 yards away, the blank broad side of the barn, tall grass and about 50 yards to the west the woods. Little too far for the kid to have made all the way into the treeline in the couple of seconds it took Dean to get here, much less disappear into it without making any noise. 

Distantly he heard one short shrill whistle followed by a longer one that broke in the middle. The all clear sign from Sammy; he’d taken down his targets, and that was awesome, but Dean wasn’t done yet. The prickle on the back of his neck confirmed it. He turned in a slow circle, trying to suss out from which direction he was being watched, but there was no one in eyesight. A quiet creak of old wood behind and above made him slowly look over his shoulder.

“Holy shi-!” he yelled as the vampire kid, who was crouching upside down on the side of the barn like a goddamn Spider-man, dropped on him from over 20 feet up. The hit knocked the wind out of him and half his sense when his head banged the hard packed earth.

He blindly swung his hand holding the gun to pistol whip the vamp and keep those teeth away from anything vital. When his wrist was seized and slammed to the ground then gun went off way too close to the right side of his head. Dean felt the heat of the shot, the stink of cordite, and _holy fuck_ his ear. He was going to be half deaf in that one for a few days.

He tucked his lips tight against his teeth and blasted a high sharp piercing whistle he knew one of the guys had to hear; hopefully they could get there before he got his neck chewed wide open or fed some stinking vamp blood and get turned.

“Too slow, too weak,” the young vamp snarled as his lips curled back and fangs elongated over human teeth. Dean struggled but he was getting a little old to easily shake off a monster dead dropping on him from 2 stories up. Ok, so maybe he should have taken Castiel up on the running offer a couple of times, used that weight bench Sam was so in love with.

His face contorted as the monster’s fetid breath swept over him. If his head wasn’t still ringing he might’ve made a quip about mouthwash, as it was all he managed to get out was a “Euch,” before a blur of white slammed into the vamp’s face with a crunching noise that made the seasoned hunter wince and knocked it off Dean.

Blinking the lingering muzzines away the hunter rolled to his side to see Castiel straddling the vamp and going to town on its face, the cast on his forearm rising and slamming down repeatedly. It was an effective bludgeon, to say the least, especially when some cast off goo from what was left of the monster’s face landed on Dean’s shirt when Castiel swung his arm up again.

“Cas! Pretty sure it’s down!” Dean groaned as he lurched to his feet. By the time he reached the fallen angel his friend had backed off the vamp’s twitching body and picked up Dean’s machete from where it had fallen on the grass.

Dean stood aside as Castiel removed the vampire’s head, not that there was much left of it, but better safe than sorry. Dean took it back to clean it; Castiel almost always forgot to do it.

“Sam ok?!” Dean barked as he wiggled a finger in his ringing ear.

Castiel mumbled something as he retrieved his rifle from where he’d tossed it in the grass before throwing himself at the vampire on top of Dean. 

“Is Sam okay?!” 

Castiel turned on his heel, expression pinched as he tucked the long gun under one arm and barked right back at the elder Winchester, “Sam’s fine! He was taking the heads of the last two when we heard your signal!”

“Why didn’t you shoot the damn thing?! You got the gun!!” Dean yelled, gesturing with his machete as they turned back towards the farmhouse, each holding the ankle of the now definitely done vamp as they dragged it through the grass.

“It jammed, okay!?” 

“It shouldn’t have jammed! Did you clean it properly last night?!”

“Of course I did! I’m not an idiot!”

“I didn’t say you were!”

Sam looked up at the shouting, pausing from tossing gas on the bodies in the front yard. “Problem?” he called to be heard over their squabbling as they rolled the last body onto the pile.

“Dean’s being a jerk!” Castiel complained at the same time Dean hollered, “I can’t hear shit, gun went off too close!” and wiggled a finger in his ear, as though that would help clear the ringing.

Castiel reached over to clonk the man on the back of the head with his bloody cast.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?!” Dean growled, rubbing his aching head and shooting the ex-angel a mulish look.

“You’re welcome. For saving your life. Twice” Castiel growled as he hitched his rifle against his shoulder once more. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam offered, even if he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be expressing gratitude. 

“Fine, nice shooting and shit, Tex, you happy?!” Dean replied, voice still raised.

“No! I should have been down here with you two in the first place!” the new human spat out before stalking off in the direction of where they left the car. 

Dean rolled his eyes in Sam’s direction and grunted in annoyance when he was met with his little brother’s bitchface. “Oh, c’mon, Sammy, everything turned out fine, what’s that look for?!”

Sam jerked his thumb in the direction of that departing friend. “He’s not fine.”

“Huh?!” Dean grunted, rubbing the side of his head. 

“I said _Cas is not fine_ ,” Sam annunciated clearly. “He’s sick of you trying to sideline him. Nut up, Dean, and go talk to him before he does something stupid!”

“Like what?!”

Sam shrugged and kicked a head that had rolled out of the fire back into the flames then leaned around to speak at Dean’s good ear. “I don’t know, he takes a lot of his cues from you so he’ll either drown his shit mood in booze or, I don’t know, try a solo hunt just to prove he can.”

Dean opened his mouth to object then closed it when he realized that was pretty much exactly what he himself would do if, hell he had done, when his dad or Bobby had made him ride the pine for one reason or another. Illness, injury, punishment.

“Fiiiine,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead as if it helped mentally prepare himself for one of those awkward as hell conversations, before he pointed a finger in his brother’s face. “You know me having a heart to heart is hard enough, but you ever try having one with Cas? It’s like talking to a goddamn stump!”

Sam batted his hand away. “Whatever, jerk, at least let him know he’s off injured reserve. He did good; you know this could have been a lot messier without him.” Sam put a big hand on Dean’s back and shoved him in the direction the fallen angel had gone. “I got to get the girl, can’t leave her hiding. We’ll be along in a bit.” The second push was a clear dismissal.

Doing something stupid was clearly at the top of Castiel’s list as Dean’ found him sitting in the back seat of the car, legs hanging out the open door, and tossing a few pills in his mouth before chasing it with a bottled water. 

The elder Winchester’s lips thinned into a line as he asked, not at all casually, especially considering he was still half yelling, “Those the Vicodin?!”

The look the ex-angel shot him was absolutely venomous. “And if they are?”

Dean rocked back on his heels and looked up at the sky praying to...whatever, certainly not that absent dickbag God, for the patience to make it through this conversation without it turning into another argument.

“Just saying you really don’t need those, Cas. Or if you think you do then you’re not in fighting shape yet.” He didn’t look at the man sitting in the car but hell if couldn’t feel the weight of the gaze Castiel was leveling at him. “If your arm’s still bugging you maybe you should have thought twice about beating a vamp to death with it.”

It was only years of ingrained habit to duck anything flying at his head that the pill bottle didn’t bean him right in the face. “The hell, Cas?!” He crouched to pick it up, ready to stash it in his pocket, maybe even flush everything down the damn toilet the moment he got home then he looked at it. “...Tylenol?”

“Yes,” Castiel practically hissed at him. “I’m well aware you don’t trust me with anything heavier, Dean.”

Dean met his gaze, startled. He’d thought he’d been subtle. 

“Sam told me what you were obviously too...chickenshit to share.” Normally Dean took amusement, even delight, in Castiel’s growing tendency to swear, but not right now.

“Ah, right, Sam. Should’ve known.” He was going to kick his little brother’s ass later for opening this can of worms. “Yeah, well, he shouldn’t have. You don’t need to know that shit.”

Dean heaved himself out of the car, the look on his face an absolute glower, and this time the ex-angel was the one who raised his voice. “Yes, I do, Dean! It’s 2014 and you’re punishing me for things I haven’t done! For things some other me did in a future that never happened!”

Castiel might not be an angel anymore but damn if he didn’t have the smiting face on.

“I’m just looking out for you, man. You didn’t see yourself, you were a mess, you couldn’t do shit without being stoned as fuck!” 

Castiel growled and actually bumped Dean’s chest with his own, the sort of personal space violation for which there was no precedence and the Winchester was uncertain if he should stand his ground. 

“I am neither hapless nor hopeless, as much as you fool yourself into thinking otherwise,” the fallen angel said with a hint of menace in his voice Dean hadn’t heard from him in years, not since he’d been a douche with wings and threatened to throw the man back into hell for disrespecting him. “I may not know how to cut my own hair or use the stove, but I was a soldier for millennia, so don’t you dare patronize me.” 

The cold fire that burned in Castiel’s eyes made Dean’s breath stumble. For a moment the ex-angel bristled with all the righteous fury and indignation he’d ever possessed as a wavelength of celestial intent.

“...a-alright, Cas,” Dean finally ventured after taking a literal step back. He needed a bit of breathing room; the heavy look Castiel laid on him felt a bit smothering. “I know...I know you’re not that guy. There’s no Croatoan, Sam’s not Lucifer’s prom dress, and Sarah Palin’s not President.” He was unable to suppress a visible shiver at the memory of that unholy future. “But you’re human now, man! You got all our weaknesses, Cas, and…” Dean looked away, unwilling to look meet Castiel’s eye as he admitted it. “Me and Sammy, especially me, are not the sort of guys you should be emulating.”

He was once again caught off guard by the hard clonk to the side of his head. “Damnit, Cas, I’m gonna cut that fucking thing off you!” Dean threatened as he rubbed his head at the knot that was surely growing from a second smack of the cast.

The ex-angel looked entirely unimpressed at the threat. Fact was, he’d dearly love to have it removed, even if he was now beginning to appreciate it’s usefulness as a bludgeon to hopefully knock some sense into people and the teeth out of others. 

“If I have to hear you moan one more time about what a poor role model you are, I’m going to cave your skull in, Dean Winchester. You don’t think I’m capable of making up my own mind? That I can’t make my own choices and I just have to-to-” Castiel flailed his arms out to his sides in a painfully human gesture of frustration. “Follow you around like a lost puppy? Or was all that talk about free will a bunch of crap?!”

Dean stared in surprise. Was that was Castiel thought...actually, what that was Dean, himself, thought? That Castiel wouldn’t have a clue how to make it on his own, that he’d have to stick with the brothers; they’d show him the way and he’d be unable to leave like he always used to.

 _Maybe_ , a little voice pinged in his head and he viciously shoved it away. “No, man, no, I, we, me and Sam don’t think that,” he floundered.

“Then what, exactly, is it you think?” Castiel said again, his voice, hard, deep and just a touch threatening. Just like the good old bad days. “Because if it’s that I need hand holding or babysitting I’ll-” He moved forward aggressively again.

“Hey! Chill out!” Dean barked, a hand out to push Castiel’s back by his shoulder. He wasn’t above getting a little physical to get his point across, just as the ex-angel apparently wasn’t. “Look, Cas, it’s just hard to reconcile the guy who somehow managed to _set a pot of water on fire_ in the kitchen last week with a capable hunter!”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed into slits as he muttered, “I told you that was an accident.”

Dean responded dryly, “Whatever. What I’m saying is there’s sharpshooting, head bashing badass hunter Cas.” He gestured at the other man’s gore soaked cast and watched with dark amusement as Castiel idly picked a broken off fang out of it with a fingernail. “And there’s fucking hopeless with almost everything else Castiel.”

The almost murderously offended look on the ex-angels face made Dean sigh. 

“Get your panties unbunched, Cas, I’m just saying that when you...do the other shit not so great it…” Dean coughed and cleared his throat. “It worries me, man, alright? Fucking shoot me, but I worry.” He went to the back of the car to pop the trunk and put his machete away, thinking it might be a bit easier to elaborate if he didn’t have to look at Castiel staring at him like every word out his mouth was to be taken as seriously as scripture.

He rummaged pointlessly in the truck, restacking a few items that would probably just fall over again the next pothole he hit. “And it’s not because I think you’re stupid or something. It’s because it’s fucked up, you shouldn’t have to learn this shit." 

Only silence answered him; although he was fully aware Castiel was still standing by the side of the car. 

“And if you don’t and you, I don’t know, burn the fucking bunker down or catch a bullet or start chasing the dragon, that’s on me...and Sam.”

Dean stopped talking, feeling slightly foolish for saying as much as he did, but it was clear Castiel hadn’t a hope in hell of figuring out why Dean had been treating him the way he did. He wasn’t just concerned about Castiel, but about him and Sam. Sam especially. 

Dean had gone through this before, trying to bring someone up, train them, teach them the shit they needed to get by when he wasn’t really in a position to do so, way in over his head. And all the ways he’d failed Sammy, the way it ate at him sometimes, all the time. 

What if he, if they, fucked up Castiel too? What if something stupid or awful happened to him and Sam blamed himself because now he was in this too, taking equal steps with Dean to train the guy for the job, educate him on how to live, try and explain how to be human when too many times the Winchester felt like monsters themselves.

Sam hadn't had to live with that heavy, near suffocating weight before. Dean didn't want him to.

Still nothing from the ex-angel nearby. Dean procrastinated as long as he could until he couldn’t take the oppressive silence anymore and banged the trunk shut again and moved around to the opposite side of the car to look at Castiel. 

The other man stood with his head tilted to one side, the way he always did when giving something considerable thought. Of course considerable thought had been devoted to porn, interrogating cats, and the Apocalypse so Dean wasn’t at all sure what Castiel was thinking. 

“Well?” he demanded.

“I have no intention of chasing any dragons, Dean. That would be suicidal,” he intoned gravely.

Dean stared at him for a few seconds. “...that’s what you’re taking away from this,” he said flatly. “The dragon thing.”

“And that I am a tremendous burden to both you and your brother.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute, I didn’t say that!”

“Also that you think I’m a capable hunter. A ‘sharpshooting, head bashing badass.’” Castiel’s ridiculous finger quotes made an appearance along with a slight upward tilt of one corner of his mouth. 

Dean regarding Castiel silently over the roof of the car, neither man looking away. 

“Cas,” Dean said cautiously, “Are you fucking with me?”

“I’ve noticed humorous deflection is your preferred method of dealing with chick flick moments.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean chuckled and shook his head before leveling a finger as the ex-angel. “But you get what I’m saying, don’t you?” Please, he quietly prayed, please get it so I don’t have to try to say any of that crap again.

“I think so. It’s both flattering and irksome, but I know you’re sincere and mean well, even if your execution is problematic and your tendency to take the blame for other people’s shortcomings quite irritating.” The other man nodded and blue eyes dipped down, finally breaking the laser stare. 

“Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome.” Castiel’s head turned at the sound of footsteps in the brush. It was Sam and the rescued woman who appeared from the woods about 100 yards away down the gravel road. She clung to the tall man’s side with her fingers white knuckling his coat sleeve.

Dean gave his brother a little two fingered salute and gestured to Cas. “I think you get shotgun this time. Little lady doesn’t look like she’s going to let go of Sam anytime soon.”

The quiet pleasure that suffused Castiel’s face as he slid into the front seat was so subtle that someone who hadn’t spent years trying to read his expressions would have missed it. Dean cranked the car and waited for the two stragglers to join them. He glanced over, pleased to note Castiel wrapping a towel around his gore encrusted cast so as not to spread the filth around the car. He missed a few spots on his face but actually a little blood spatter wasn’t a bad look on him. He looked like he’d come out on top in a fight, always a good thing.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?” He looked away quickly and made a show of dithering between _Houses of the Holy_ and _Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap_ tapes.

“Try to bench me again and I’ll choke you out, lock you in the dungeon, and tell Sam you went on a bender so he and I should handle the job alone.”

Dean gaped at the man in the seat next to him who looked back at him as placidly as though he had just related there was a chance of rain in the forecast.

“...fair enough.”

Castiel nodded. “Houses of the H-.”

“Don’t push your luck, assbutt.”


	7. Hardheaded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of Dean's POV.
> 
> And I promise next chapter we'll have a little less fighting and little more bonding, got to start moving these guys along to the point for the explicit rating, don't I?!

“Remember H.H. Holmes in the sewer, Sammy? Now that reeked!”

“Get this off me right now, or I’ll get a hacksaw and do it myself,” Castiel growled even as he covered his nose.

The cast lasted 4 days after the vampire job before they had to admit there was no way to get monster blood out of the plaster and the ex-angel was starting to smell like a slaughterhouse in summer. Even Dean’s protests that Castiel needed at least another week or two died off when the stench of rot hit him right in the nose one morning and completely put him off his breakfast. 

There’d been bacon; what a fucking waste.

When it was finally pried off Castiel raised his arm for inspection and allowed Sam to manipulate his wrist, wiggle his fingers and curl them into a fist. Castiel was much more concerned at how pale and oddly thin his left forearm appeared when compared alongside his right than any mild discomfort he still experienced.

“Doesn’t look that bad, actually,” Sam said reassuringly when he saw the displeased look on Castiel’s face.

Castiel pulled his arm back as soon as Sam let go and raked his blunt nails up and down his skin vigorously. “I thought the itching was going to drive me mad.“ His practically blissful sigh of relief made the brothers exchange amused looks over his head. “I don’t plan to break a bone again; that was very annoying.”

Dean smacked a hand down on his shoulder. “Yeah, well, lesson learned and all that, Cas. Now you need to rehab it a bit, build up your strength in that arm, but take it slow.” 

It became clear very quickly that Dean might as well spoken to a brick wall for the good it did. Castiel typically had two speeds, always had: continuous motion or dead stop. Castiel on the move was relentless, hunting with determination and resolve, whether it be as an angel for God or a man searching for monsters. On the other end of the spectrum he was frequently brought to a sudden and abrupt halt when something diverted his attention: cartoons, the occasional bee, a line from Cat’s Cradle that puzzled him to distraction, the still not infrequent cooking disaster that left him standing in the middle of a smoke filled kitchen with a blank look on his face until one of the brothers found a fan to clear the air. 

Castiel, post injury,was a man in motion as he shoved his training into a higher gear, heedless of Dean’s warnings. His already infrequent diversions into recreation with novels and the occasional movie dried up almost entirely. The runs went on longer, started earlier, and he eventually nagged Dean into taking him to a sporting goods store to get a stupidly overpriced pair of new running shoes. The times the ex-angel wasn’t trying to lap the property he was on the firing range or in the stacks with his face in a tome. The guy seemed hellbent on translating the entire library before the year was out.

Dean sat across from Castiel in the war room one afternoon, flipping between news websites looking for weirdness, and Netflix to see what was new on his “Recommended for You” list: Grey’s Anatomy latest season, Wicked, a Led Zeppelin documentary, The Lost Boys. The last he promptly struck from his queue with a snort then glanced over at the ex-angel. 

Castiel scratched out yet another appendix to yet another translation, pen scribbling over the paper in cramped slanted script as his other hand, the left one, held one of those small exercise balls Sam had given him when the cast came off. He slowly tightened his grip then relaxed. Over and over and over. His right hand moved fluidly across the paper, serious blue eyes following it and occasionally sliding back to the source text. His left hand went through it’s repetitive squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax, at a steady, monotonous pace. Then he switched. 

The elder Winchester cocked one eyebrow as Castiel began to write, albeit slower and a bit less tidily with his left hand, and his right hand took up the exercise ball. He watched as the ex-angel cocked his left hand at an awkward, but serviceable, angle to prevent it from dragging over the still damp ink as he wrote.

“Why are you doing that?” 

“These texts aren’t as useful to us as they could be, given you and Sam don’t speak Old Frisian so-”

“Not that, Cas, that,” Dean waved at his hands. “I didn’t know you were ambidextrous.”

Castiel put his pen down and leaned back in his chair, but continued to squeeze the exercise ball. “I’m not. I’m teaching myself to be.”

“Ok, I’ll bite. Why?”

“In case my one of my arms is incapacitated again it won’t be nearly as much of a hindrance,” Castiel responded simply.

Dean was taken aback at that response. While it made a certain amount of sense, in a very Castiel way, it was also pretty ridiculous. 

“Cas, not saying that’s a stupid idea,” even though he sort of thought it was, “but you can’t plan for that sort of thing. Shit happens.”

“I don’t happen to agree,” Castiel replied blandly and bent his head to his task again. Dean sighed and returned his attention to his own work, although he did notice when Castiel changed hands again half an hour later. 

The next time they were on the range Dean had to acknowledge his friend was quickly becoming nearly as good a shot with a pistol in his left hand as his right; although he was still resolutely dominant side only when sniping. The self-satisfied look on Castiel’s face irked Dean, but it wasn’t like he could complain about the guy becoming a better marksman. 

He did, however, complain loudly when Castiel badgered him into buying a new shoulder holster he could swap to either side. Even Dean thought that was a bit of overkill, but Castiel was damned persistent when he started nagging.

“If I had my own card I could do this myself,” the new human pointed out.

“Forget it, you’re not grown up enough to incur fake debt.” He ignored Castiel’s attempt to explain that argument made zero sense.

The following week Dean was poking through one of the last storage rooms they’d not yet finished archiving and found a funky looking medallion.. He hadn’t dared touch it as something about it made his weird-o-meter spike, so it was clearly hinky. He wanted the guys to take a look at it; one of those nerds surely had to have seen it in the lore considering they both practically live with a book shoved up their nose. 

When he couldn’t locate Castiel in the library or the range he decided Sam was the next best bet and headed for the gym. Sure enough the sound of annoying exercise grunts greeted him as he turned the corner. 

“Gonna give yourself a hernia one of these...days...Sam” he trailed off as he watched his moose of a brother counting Castiel’s reps as the ex-angel did chin-ups. One-handed.

“Fricking gym rats,” he groused as he stepped forward for a better view as Castiel changed hands and continued, this time with his non-dominant arm; he kept up a steady tempo and cranked out half a dozen before he started to struggle.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said a bit breathless, apparently on a break from his own workout as he counted for Castiel. “He looks good right? Three more, Cas,” he exhorted.

“Meh.” The elder Winchester shrugged in a blasé manner and failed to dodge the elbow Sam tossed to his side.

“Whatever, jerk, you can’t even do three total,” Sam chuckled as he shoved sweaty hair out of his eyes.

Castiel huffed out a last pull-up before he dropped to the floor and dragged up the hem of his t-shirt to mop his face. “Dean’s upper body strength is formidable, Sam.”

“Thank you, Cas.”

“Mostly from lifting his fork to his mouth,” the ex-angel continued.

“Shut it, smartass!” Dean growled then pushed Castiel out of the way and took his spot under the bar. He’d show him. Sarcastic little featherbrain thought he was all that just because he caught the exercise bug from Dean’s steroidal brother. 

“I’d rather be a smartass than a dumbass,” Castiel retorted tartly, and Sam choked on his water.

Dean shot him an annoyed glare and adjusted his right hand’s grip on the bar half a dozen times before Sam’s fake cough spurred him to actually do a pull up. He did three, thank you very much. Hell, he even squeezed in a couple more and if he kicked his legs a bit or wheezed on the last ones what the fuck ever. He dropped back to the mat and gave his brother and Castiel a smug look before turning away to discretely rub his burning tricep. 

“If you’d join us in more regular workouts,” Castiel offered with a flat tone that meant he already knew Dean’s response..

“Pfft please,” Dean scoffed, waving the idea away like a gnat. “I know exercise is good for you but at what cost?” He gestured at Castiel whose dark hair stuck up in thin damp spikes, his face flushed, the collar of his shirt dark with sweat. He...actually didn’t look that bad, less worn out from exhaustion and stress than just tired in the way one gets from plain old hard work.

Dean wasn’t sure the last time he’d felt that way. “Besides all these sit ups and toe touches and crap aren’t going to help you in a fight.”

“It’s called conditioning and strength training, Dean,” Sam chided as he took a slug from his water bottle. Dean made a face and mimed blah blah blah with his hand at Castiel, who failed to look amused at his antics.

“You shouldn’t be so dismissive,” Castiel added. “It’s making me stronger, better.” 

Sam nodded in agreement with the ex-angel then grabbed the bar and started doing behind the neck pull ups with his knees bent and ankles crossed, effortless as could be. 

Fricking show off, Dean thought.

“Yeah, right, I’ll be the judge of that.” Dean stepped onto the sparring mat and waved a hand at Castiel to get into the ring, ready to put the ex-angel on his ass and remind him how steep his learning curve still was.

Castiel easily sidestepped him and went around to heavy bag. “No.”

Dean blinked. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean no, Dean,” Castiel replied evenly as he set about throwing punches at the bag. Some pretty serious hits, actually, rocking the heavy weight back and forth between jabs and crosses. “No is a full sentence.”

Dean looked over at his brother for some assistance, maybe a translation. Sam just shook his head and held up a hand in the universal gesture for “not involved” before he grabbed his water bottle and departed.

Presumably to wash his luxurious locks free of icky sweat, Dean uncharitably thought at Sam’s back.

“What is your deal, man?” he queried as he turned back around to level Castiel with an impatient look. “C’mon, let’s spar.” He clapped his hand together.

“No,” Castiel repeated as he threw a series of knees into the bag before spinning to toss an elbow strike that hit with a hard thump.

“Lay off the broken record crap and get your ass over here!” he demanded.

Castiel stopped after throwing one last kick-punch combo and turned to look at Dean from beneath lowered brows. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Dean whistled sarcastically, “Wow, that’s some attitude. Mind explaining why you’re throwing it at me?” 

Castiel crossed his arm over his chest mulishly. “I make the decisions on my training now.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at the stubborn ex-angel and took a step forward. “You might not have done a bad job on that vamp hunt, but that doesn’t mean you get to suddenly start calling the shots. You get me?” 

“No,” Castiel said with purse of his lips that on anyone else might have passed for a freaking pout, but Dean had seen it on the guy’s face before: when he’d hunted God then again as he’d pursued Purgatory’s power. That expression face that meant Castiel was digging his heels in. 

“You don’t get to be in charge of everything.” The grouchy former soldier of God was apparently taking the whole free will thing to heart and had decided to start questioning every one of Dean’s decisions.

The elder Winchester stood in front of the slightly shorter man, this time the one to cross into the other’s personal space. “I’m the better hunter, so, yeah, that means I’m in charge. Always have been, always will be. Get used to it.” 

The tight smile he tossed at the ex-angel wasn’t at all sunny and, practically challenging the man, Dean poked him in the chest with two fingers. 

Castiel’s eyes widened at the sharp prod for a moment then he moved, a quick dart of a strike that would have snapped Dean’s head back had the seasoned hunter not known that was _exactly_ how he’d react. He simply rocked to the side as Castiel’s fist zipped past him. 

The narrowed and fierce gaze Castiel tipped at Dean before he spun on his heel and threw a roundhouse kick at the hunter’s side indicated this wasn’t just sparring, this was more like a fight.

“Nice try,” Dean grunted as he grabbed Castiel’s leg around the calf, halting the blow’s momentum, before he shoved back to knock the ex-angel to the mat. “But sloppy.”

He barely had a second to fire a gloating wink at Castiel before the other man was back on his feet and coming back at him with a flurry of jabs that Dean deflected, for the most part. The two that landed smarted, but Dean made a show of shrugging them off with an exaggerated roll of his shoulders.

“That supposed to hurt? I thought all those pull ups were supposed to give you some muscles.” He gave the ex-angel another jackass grin, the kind that showed a lot of teeth.

“Shut up,” Castiel growled in response as he darted a fist forward and Dean bobbed easily to avoid it and returned with a jab of his own. Castiel turned away from it, but left himself open for the hunter to snake an arm around his neck and yank him down in a brief headlock.

“C’mon, man, this is kid stuff, thought you were good at this,” Dean teased with a dark edge to his voice as he scrubbed his knuckles way too hard against the other man’s scalp then released him with a push that sent Castiel stumbling back, red faced. 

“You’re being an ass,” the ex-angel pointed out as he held his hands up once more in a ready defensive position, waiting for the next hit from the hunter.

“Sticks and stones, dude.” Dean didn’t go on the offensive again; he watched and he waited. Castiel was annoyed and it made him careless, that was easy to see. After fifteen seconds passed with the ex-angel bouncing on the balls of his feet and the hunter still smirking, Castiel’s’ patience ran out and he darted forward again, this time going for a kidney punch. Dean mentally rolled his eyes when Castiel’s shoulders hitched up the way they always did just before he threw right, and the hunter’s deft twist of his torso allowed him to slam an elbow into the side of the other man’s head.

The fallen angel gasped and one hand rose automatically to rub at the knot that would surely develop in a few hours.

“Tsk tsk,” Dean mocked and wagged a finger at Castiel as he ambled back, loose and easy. “Got too many tells, Cas, might as well be written on your forehead.” 

Castiel glared in response and resumed his stance, circling and matching Dean’s pace around the perimeter of the mat, tense and alert whereas the hunter was relaxed, shoulders down, palms open by his sides. Nothing about him indicated how he might move next. 

When Castiel feinted left this time Dean followed easily and knocked him back 3 paces to bump into the heavy bag with a shove that not only unbalanced him but winded the ex-angel.

“Cas, I can whip you and Sammy’s asses any day of the week,” Dean said, breezily, as though having a friendly conversation with the other man, as if the Castiel wasn’t breathing heavily and trying to reclaim the ground he was steadily losing with easily countered hit. “But that’s what not makes me better than both of you put together.”

“Your ego is appalling,” Castiel huffed in irritation as he threw another kick at Dean, this one making contact with the man’s forearms as he shoved them down to block. The impact rattled Dean’s bones, but nothing worse than he’d taken a hundred, a thousand times.

He quickly took Castiel’s feet from under him again with a kick to the back of one knee. He chuckled as Castiel rolled away from him, hair sweaty and wild as he crouched and eyed Dean cautiously. 

“Says the rookie who thinks he’s got it all figured it now,” Dean jeered as he walked a causal path around the edge of the mat. “You don’t get it, Cas. It’s not the weapons or the training,” he confided with a mocking chuckle. “The guns and the gym and the holy water and the library.” He spread his arms wide as though to encompass the whole of the bunker. “All this shit you’re so fixated on figuring out how to use just right? S’all window dressing.” 

Dean casually leaned over to pick up one of the wooden sparring sticks and tossed it to Castiel, leaving his own hands empty. Castiel was usually painfully efficient with fightsticks, all those millennia fighting with the angelic blades would do that. Dean wasn’t worried.

The ex-angel blinked at it then at the hunter before hurriedly raising the weapon in a defensive block when Dean suddenly barrelled at him.

“It’s the hate, man,” Dean shared as he took a hard shot to the forearm. It didn’t even make the hunter pause; instead he flipped his hand and seized Castiel’s wrist in a lock, applying pressure just the right way to make the ex-angel drop the fightstick with a gasp. 

“You gotta hate ‘em, Cas, because they sure as hell hate you.” He released the other man and moved back, watching as Castiel rubbed his wrist protectively then retrieved the stick and brandished it again, lips pressed in a tight line as he scowled at Dean.

He nodded his head in invitation at his opponent, keeping his guard down and his hands low, the very picture of vulnerability, if you didn’t know the man. Castiel knew him, or he thought he did, and yet he fell for the gambit, his irritation showing at Dean’s jibes at his skills, the cynical tone to his words, the ugly ring of truth in them.

“You talk too much,” Castiel shot back as he reversed his grip on the fightstick and spun, his arm arcing in a backswing that would surely result in a concussion. Except it hit Dean’s palm with a meaty slap as the hunter grabbed it. Castiel grimaced and tried to wrestle it free, frustration warring with determination on his face. His other fist skipped forward and tagged Dean neatly in the eye, rocking his head back. When it came forward again Dean headbutted him in the nose.

His eyes immediately teared at the pain and a loud Enochian curse spilled from his lips as Dean used his grip to haul the other man closer, hoping the weight of his words would penetrate the ex-angel’s thick skull. 

“You gotta hate what they are, Cas. What they do. The way they think just because they got some funky power they can do whatever they want. You gotta hate all of it, ‘cause that makes it easier.”

Castiel went suddenly still, every line and muscle locked tight as he ceased to struggle against the experienced hunter’s grasp on his weapon. “Makes what easier?” he growled as he felt a dribble down his lip from his bloodied nose.

“Accepting how good it makes you feel to kill the ugly sons of bitches. To know that if you’re good at just one thing it’s taking lives.”

Castiel reeled back, his grip on the fightstick going slack as he shook his head and pushed away, putting distance between them. “That’s crap, you’re not-”

“Not what, Cas? Huh? Not the best goddamn hunter around? Not fucking _spectacular_ at chopping off goddamn heads every other night?” Dean gestured with the practice stick in his hand before tossing in on the floor. “Because that’s what makes me good. Better than Sam and better than you. The hate.” He stalked forward like he was going to throw another blow and the ex-angel backstepped until he bumped into the wall and could go no further.

Castiel’s piercing gaze felt like a lead weight on Dean’s chest, but he figured it was best to just put it all out there. Clue the fallen angel in to what he needed to learn if he ever wanted to be tough enough to not need Dean to watch his damn back. Maybe to not need Dean at all. 

If he wanted to enjoy all that free will and be his own man, Castiel needed to toughen up a hell of a lot more, if he wanted to survive life itself, let alone this job. He needed to know what kind of a monster he could turn into if he was so dead set on hunting with the Winchesters.

“That’s what puts the fucking fire in my belly to tell Michael to bite me and Crowley to piss off. That’s what makes me smile,” Dean could feel the rictus stretch of his own bitter smirk on his face, “and make jokes when some supernatural piece of trash is trying to rip my throat out. How much I hate every-fucking-thing.” 

He shoved the Castiel one more time, like he could bury the other man in the wall, before he snorted with disgust, at himself or the ex-angel it wasn’t clear, and he turned away. Dean considered making a break for the door before the ex-angel could respond. He hadn’t broken a sweat when sparring but spilling this to Castiel left Dean winded. He didn’t want to hear the disgust in his friend’s voice at just what low, base, angry creature Dean really was, how close he was to a monster sometimes. 

“Do you hate me?” Castiel’s low voice inquired, his tone heavy.

Dean couldn’t help the hollow laugh that leaked from him. “Sometimes...sometimes I wish I did.” He dragged one hand down his face, suddenly far more weary than he should be from a simple spar. He turned back in Castiel’s direction, “Sure would make things eas-”

He didn’t complete his thought due to the fist slamming into his face..

When he opened his eyes Dean saw Sam’s shaggy damp head leaning over him. The bright shit-eating grin on his brother’s face told him all he needed to know. “Shut up,” he groaned as he gingerly felt along his hotly throbbing cheek.

“I told you the next time you subjected me to another one of your self-loathing lectures I would cave your skull in,” a gravelly voice sounded on his left, and he slowly rolled his neck to look over. Castiel sat cross legged on the floor with his head tipped back as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sam snorted and offered a hand to his brother. “Lucky for you he decided to go for your glass jaw instead.” Dean huffed and batted Sam’s hand away as he slowly got to his knees then, shakily, to his feet.

“One lucky hit doesn’t mean jack,” he grumbled pointing in the direction of his bloodied opponent.

“Actually, it does,” Sam crowed. “You said just last week if Cas ever managed to lay you out you’d let him-”

“That was not a bet!” Dean yelled then winced at the new explosion of pain in his head. Feathery little fucker nailed him good.

“Drive the car!” Sam finished, gleefully shouting over his brother.

The ex-angel angled his head to look at them while still trying to stop his bloody nose. 

“He is not driving the car!”

“I don’t want to drive the car.”

Dean looked painfully relieved. “See? He doesn’t want to drive the car.” He also managed to look slightly offended, because who wouldn’t be dying to get behind Baby’s wheel.

“I want a credit card.”


	8. Ain't that a river in Egypt?

Castiel squinted at his reflection in the mirror as he waited for the shower to heat up to an acceptably near scalding level. The bruise across his nose had finally faded to a sickly yellow after nearly two weeks. It hadn’t been broken, although a near thing, and Dean had actually fared worse. His black eye was still purple tinged, and Castiel internally chastised himself at the swoop of grim satisfaction he felt sometimes when he looked at Dean’s face.

He wasn’t angry, per se, at the hunter but more frustrated than anything. Logically, he knew Dean testing him, training him in his own way so the ex-angel would not only develop his hunting skills but a thicker skin, a few emotional calluses, if he wished to extend the metaphor, to further protect himself from the hardships of their work. 

Many days the training was rigorously productive and Castiel could track his steady improvement across the board over the last few months. Some days he saw approval on the Winchester’s faces. Other days, more often than he wished to consider, Castiel went to bed only to lie awake for hours as he mulled over the distinct impression that Dean continued to push him a step back for every two he attempted to take forward. 

Hence the demand for the credit card, as he knew Dean would have to give in when faced with the idea of letting Castiel behind the wheel of his precious car. A card would allow the ex-angel an additional modicum of independence, the ability to go out on his own on occasion without needing to drag one of the boys along.

The result of his first couple of solo forays into Lebanon, which wasn’t exactly a metropolis, without Sam or Dean dogging his heels had resulted the acquisition of set of work gloves and a thick sterling silver ring that sat snugly at the base of the middle finger on either hand. Simply shaking hands could lead to early detection of a shifter or were. 

Also getting punched in the face by someone wearing a ring hurt quite badly, as Sam attested by tapping one finger to a light white scar on his cheek, a souvenier his brother had given him during one of their blowouts a few years earlier.

Castiel squinted one last time at the mirror before it fogged over and brushed a hand over his head. It would be time for another haircut in a week or so. While shopping for a few additional hygiene products on his last visit to town he’d considered purchasing his own clippers but the price seemed rather steep, and Dean hadn’t made any indication he objected to sharing, so Castiel skipped the $60 Norelcos and instead indulged in some of the interesting smelling shower products.

He glanced at the line of colorful bottles that lined the corner of the shower and recalled Dean’s initial teasing about body washes.

“Guys use bar soap not this...this...what the hell is this?” the hunter demanded, waving black bottle around before taking a sarcastic sniff of the contents, clearly ready to be repulsed. “That’s... that’s not...entirely girly.” The Axe Anarchy wash went missing from Castiel’s bathroom within a day. That was fine, he preferred Old Spice anyway.

As he dropped his rather ripe workout t-shirt on the floor of the bathroom Castiel rolled his shoulders experimentally. He’d spent the afternoon with Sam learning a clever arm lock that generally resulted in the ex-angel firmly pinned to the ground at an awkward angle; now his trapezius hurt. Since he fell human Castiel had learned the various aches and pains of his human body didn’t all merit the same level of concern, and he’d begun cataloging things as “life threatening” versus “nuisance stuff.” 

His shoulder was nuisance stuff and later he’d stretch it out, right now he just wanted to to be clean and try that wash that didn’t smell like any spices at all but, somehow, like a beach. Which was apt as the scent was named “Fiji.” Castiel knew, rationally, the fragrance was artificial, a combination of often tongue-tangling chemicals blended in such a way to make an surprisingly effective facsimile of what white sand ringing a sunny tropical island might smell like.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure what that smelled like. The last time he’d been on a beach he’d been an angel, weighted down by Heavenly duty and too busy hunting down some of Raphael’s supporters to pay attention to what might have been a quite pleasant environment for a human.

Maybe one day he’d go to one again, he mused as he lathered his hands and began a somewhat leisurely, if methodical, top to bottom wash. His lips pursed in a disappointed moue as he remembered vacations to remote and exotic locales were unlikely to occur with the Winchesters. Perhaps one day he might be included in the infamous “Vegas week,” but he wouldn’t hang his hopes on that. That way he was unlikely to be disappointed.

He squeezed his eyelids and mouth shut as he soaped his face, having learned quite a while ago that, as pleasant as the scent was, most soaps tasted awful and burned his eyes horribly. Smoothed by the suds, Castiel’s fingers scratched lightly over his jaw and neck as he decided to forgo shaving for another day before borrowing Dean’s trimmer again. It was repetitively tiresome to bother shaving more than every few days unless a job required a more orderly appearance.

He hummed as now work roughened fingers curled around the back of his neck and dragged forward over his shoulders, a satisfying push on sore muscles that relieved some of the ache. Tipping his head back to let the hot water rain over his face, Castiel pulled his hands forward again and sighed at the incremental release of tension that followed. Palms and heels pressed into tired and tight muscles, nails lightly scraped over patches of skin where nerves tingled in response, and goosebumps rose in their wake.

Among the many tidbits of personal knowledge Castiel had gleaned since he’d fallen was that his body was not only capable of a seemingly endless variety of hungers, pains, twinges and itches that had initially driven him to distraction but could also play host to nearly as numerous pleasurable sensations. 

Satiation from a good meal and the pleasurable sleepiness that followed

The luxurious feel of a full body stretch upon waking or after a long, relaxing run.

The initially shocking but quickly gratifying touch of his own hand over certain sensitive spots.

He wasn’t stupid, Castiel knew humans enjoyed sexual release because it felt good. He had, after all, seen innumerable acts of coitus over his many, many years watching over humanity. But the obvious chasm between observing and experiencing, even alone, was something he’d not fully comprehended until he’d been in the bunker a couple of days and indulged in a longer shower than usual.

During his lonely, perilous time on the road from where he’d landed in a ditch to the safety of the Winchesters and the Men of Letters’ base, his few opportunities to cleanse himself had been perfunctory and hurried. Sometimes performed only when his own body odor offended him or the guys at that one homeless shelter who nicknamed him “Skunk” in the 3 days he was there before earning enough money recycling cans to take a bus to cut nearly 100 miles off his journey. Choosing between being clean or having clothing, as some of his were stolen the first time he’d left them unattended, he decided having pants was more important.

On his second night in the bunker, the first of which had been spent sleeping a nearly incomprehensible and uninterrupted 9 hours, he’d been determined to wash the grime of his trip, along with the less pleasant memories, away as completely as possible. The intense physical and emotional relief Castiel experienced as he scrubbed his as skin until it was pink and tingled manifested in a way that piqued his curiosity and prompted him to touch himself in an exploratory manner for the first time. 

Needless to say, Castiel spent quite a bit of time in the interim between then and now learning his body in a variety of ways beyond those required by hunter’s training. Curiosity still guided his motions more often than not. 

The wonder at how something as simple as the catch of his own thumbnail over his nipple could zing along his nerve endings to cause his cock to twitch between his legs as he stood under the falling water.

The way his breathing at first deepened at the initial slow light strokes to his member then quickened as he firmed his grip.

How sometimes he bit down on his lower lip or the tip of his own tongue, teeth catching and scraping, gently abusing tender flesh.

How, without conscious direction, his whole body was engaged when he touched himself like this.

It wasn’t just the hand slowly stripping his cock, it was his back arching against the coolness of the shower tiles when he leaned against them because he knees had unlocked. It was his other hand sliding aimlessly up and down his own chest, fingers dipping into his navel, circling one nipple then the other until they tightened and peaked, nails scratching over his own scalp as he fisted his hair.

His brain seemed to almost always be whirring, ticking over ideas and thoughts, hardly ever pausing except in sleep in its ruminations on lore, spells, training, his next meal, how long the car drive would be, the miles he completed each morning, guessing the length of the wait until the next job.

When he did this...this deceptively simple thing humans had been doing since before they even formed rudimentary societies, his mind became nothing but white noise. He was, for just a little while, entirely free of those concerns and niggling anxieties and worries; they were all smeared away by the fizz of nerves sparking just under his skin as he slowly stripped himself down to raw sensation. Each steady, heavy pump made his head loll on his neck loosely until beads of precum pearled at the tip and dropped to the wet tile to slowly wash away.

Castiel’s heart thudded in his ears, progressively ramping up to match its pace when he ran, until it deafened him to the patter of water around and over him, blanked the sound of his own quiet pants as he adjusted his grip so his index and middle finger swept over the frenulum on each upstroke, thumb catching on the edge of the head.

The way he felt so present in his body, entrenched so far down beyond the cellular level he used to be, so owned by it for once instead of the reverse, it was...enlightening in a way. That he could, through such simple motions, stop nearly all troublesome thoughts, tamp down the growing tempest of his human emotions, simply submerge himself in pure, uncomplicated physical pleasure.

No wonder Dean was so fixated on it.

Castiel choked out a rare loud gasp, and his cock jerked in his hand as the first spurt of come landed on the tile. He squeezed his eyes shut to more fully sink into the undiluted rush of release as his cock throbbed against his palm. He stroked again, fist now tight as it traveled from root to just under the head, practically milking himself, as he tried to wring every drop of physical bliss from these few moments he had to himself to just be...fully immersed in himself. 

When his knees went loose once more Castiel obeyed them and slid down the tile to sit on the shower floor and bowed his head. He sighed at the patter of hot water over his shoulders, dripping down his chest as he quietly breathed slow and deep through the delicious aftershocks of orgasm. He enjoyed the way some of his muscles twitched involuntarily, others went lax and still in the aftermath, like his nervous system had briefly short circuited from the stimulation. 

The human body truly was a wondrous thing, he thought hazily as the last of his release swirled down the drain in the floor.

“Cas!” Sam voice sounded through his closed bedroom door and drifted into the bathroom before a hand pounded on it twice. “We got a job. C’mon, meet you in the garage in 5!”

“Ri-,”Castiel coughed when he throat cracked hoarsely. “Right there. I’ll be there there!” The temporary easement of tension vanished in a moment as he clambered to his feet and twisted the shower off. He kicked his dirty clothes into a corner of the bathroom to deal with later and dragged his towel briskly over his short hair then slung it around his waist as he shouldered open the door to his room.

First things first, Castiel crouched to drag his go-bag from under his bed and tossed it on top his desk, quickly searching through it to ensure he had his basics: angelic blade which, mercifully, had not vanished along with his grace, his preferred Sig Sauers and holsters, assorted ammo for both the handgun and his rifle, which he would snag from the armory on his way to the garage, and the leather kit that held an assortment of edged weapons like his machete, throwing knives, and simple daggers in an assortment of metals, good for hurting a wide variety of creatures.

“Cas, we gotta-” Dean pushed open the ex-angel’s bedroom door and jerked up short.

“A job, I know. I’ll be there in 3 minutes.” He turned away from his go-bag to haul open the top drawer of his dresser in which he’d stacked 2 complete changes of clothes ready to be packed without needing to sort through them, preparation having been drilled into him by the brothers. Underwear socks, a button down blue shirt with grey and white tie along with a cheap but serviceable dark blue suit for those jobs that required a more official look. A pair of jeans with a t-shirt and a long sleeved Henley for the more manual labor they were likely to encounter. 

He shoved both outfits in the bag and rushed the zipper closed before he turned to grab something to wear on the road.

Dean was still standing by the opened door, his hand on the knob, and blinking at Castiel like his brain wasn’t entirely sure what it was seeing.

“Yeah...yeah...well you better hurry up and get WHOA!” Dean flung his hands up in front of his face as Castiel dropped his towel to haul on a pair of boxer briefs.

Castiel rolled his eyes so hard he thought he felt something pull in his temple as he dragged up his jeans quickly and sat on the bed to start putting on his socks and work boots. People’s reactions to nudity were so pointlessly prurient. He needed to get dressed, and he didn’t have time Dean’s hypocritical position that seeing women nude was great but men was some sort of affront to his eyesight.

“I suggest you knock next time if you don’t want an eyeful,” Castiel said sourly as he put a hand on Dean’s shoulder to move out of the way so he could get to the closet and his wool coat. Why Dean acted like Castiel’s unclothed figure was offensive rankled him a way he fought to ignore. There was a job to do.

Dean stumbled a bit to the left, reluctant as he was to remove his hand from his face, and huffed. “Hey, how was I to know you were…” he trailed off.

“Prone to occasionally being unclothed between showering and changing?” Castiel grumbled as he grabbed his coat. “It’s been known to occur on a regular basis these last months, Dean.”

The elder Winchester opened his mouth then closed it, opened it again like a fish gasping on the shore.

“Sam’s probably waiting. Come on,” he reminded the hunter tersely as he grabbed his go bag and shouldered past him into the hallway.

It wasn’t until his booted footsteps turned the corner of the hallway leading the stairs that Dean slowly peeked between his fingers and cautiously looked around. 

“Ugh, son of a bitch,” he said to exactly no one and visibly shuddered with an exaggerated roll of his shoulders.

They’d been on the road only a couple of minutes, Castiel in the back with the brothers up front as usual, before Sam looked over at Dean with a smile on his face. “About time we caught one of these cases, right? God, it’s been years!” He sounded elated, more excited than his typical level intensity when discussing a hunt.

“Yeah, awesome,” Dean said in a flat voice that didn’t come anywhere near matching his brother’s in enthusiasm.

“C’mon, Dean we’re always bitching about never getting one anywhere cool, cheer up!” Sam reached over to sock his brother in the shoulder, not too hard lest Dean jerk the wheel.

Castiel frowned, a pinch drawing between his brows, as he looked between the brothers ahead of him. “You sound...happy, Sam. Jobs don’t generally make you...happy.” The ex-angel sounded both mildly confused and disapproving.

“NOLA!” Sam practically crowed as he turned in his seat to look at Castiel. 

His frown only became more pronounced. “Is that a woman?”

Sam huffed good naturedly and reached over the back seat to slap Castiel on the leg. “The Big Easy, man!” The ex-angel jumped minutely at the crack of palm to thigh.

“The big, easy...what?” His head cocked to the left in bewilderment and he looked to the rear view mirror to try and catch Dean’s eye, silently asking for and additional noun to complete whatever picture Sam was painting.

“New Orleans,” Dean supplied without letting his eyes move from the road ahead.

“Oh, in Louisiana. Well, you could have just said that, Sam,” he complained and sat back. “It doesn’t explain why you’re so inappropriately enthused.”

“It’s _New Orleans_ ,” Sam repeated, eyebrows raised, as if repetition explained everything.

“Yes…? And…?” Castiel nodded as though to prompt Sam to further elaborate, although he suspected the man was taking some degree of enjoyment in watching Castiel try and fail to work it out.

Dean gusted out a sigh from behind the wheel. “It’s a party town, Cas, like Vegas but soaked in rum and hillbillies.”

Sam laughed beside him, and Dean reached out to return the arm punch he’d received, with a bit more power behind it than the one Sam had delivered moments ago. “And it’s overrun witches. I fricking-”

“Hate witches.” Castiel and Sam both replied in unison.

Sam guffawed and even Castiel cracked a slight smile, which Dean caught when he glared in the rearview finally. “Couple of jokers, great. It’s the most haunted city in the country, Cas,” Dean elaborated in a disgusted tone, “We go down there for a job and it hardly makes a dent. Another ghost just pops up somewhere else in town, and the covens multiple faster than rabbits on Viagra. It’s a fucking waste of time.”

“A waste of time in someplace warm!” Sam protested. “Remember the last time we were there? It must’ve been…”Sam scratched his head, clearly fishing for the answer. 

“2002, the Beau-”

“Beauregard plantation haunting! Yeah, I couldn’t even legally drink but that didn’t stop us,” Sam chuckled and look over his shoulder at Castiel. “We wrapped up at salt and burn and since dad was in the wind again we decided to stay a few days for-”

“Mardi Gras, yeah!” Dean unexpectedly whooped, and Castiel’s eyes widened as the brothers high fived in a moment of familial solidarity, and the car swerved minutely over the yellow line before it was brought back into its lane.

“It was before I left for Stanford, Cas, we had the best time,” Sam said fondly. Castiel’s eyes flicked automatically to the elder Winchester, who typically flinched or otherwise made an expression of annoyance anytime that particular topic was brought up, but his face didn’t change except to crack into a dimpled grin.

“Yeah, it was the week little Sammy became a man.” Dean reached over to pinch his brother’s cheek but Castiel’s sharp, “Dean! The road!” had him bringing his hand back to the wheel before he drifted over the line again.

“Shut up, jerk, it was not!”

“By my count Sam would have been 18 and legally an adult by Lent 2002,” Castiel contributed.

The inelegant snort that floated from the front seat spoke volumes. “I mean he got laid for the first time. Jesus Christ, Cas, thought you were better at picking up on this stuff by now,” Dean said gruffly, easily ignoring the bitchface he brother threw at him from across the bench seat.

“Sexual exploits are not something I automatically associate with manhood, Dean. Not everyone is so relentlessly preoccupied with fornication as a demonstration of masculinity as you,” the ex-angel remarked, even as a mild twinge at his own hypocrisy niggled at his conscience. 

He wasn’t _preoccupied_ per se, certainly not to the level his friend was. Castiel had looked it up on the Google and found that the frequency with which he touched himself for sensual release wasn’t at all out of the norm...albeit closer to a man in his early 20s as opposed to the nearly 40 years his vessel possessed. Although he was, in actuality, much older his true possession of this body still quite new. So he figured he was allowed to masturbate on slightly higher than average basis.

Whatever, it felt good. And it still didn’t mean he automatically related things immediately to sexual activity, as Dean did. That was just very...Dean-ish.

“Did he just insult me?” Dean quietly queried his brother out of the corner of his downturned mouth. 

“He called you an overcompensating horn dog, in his own way. Can’t say he’s wrong.” Sam turned in his seat to look at Dean a bit more fully and laughed lightly when his older brother pouted.

“Look, I know you hate witches and the city is always a hotbed of ghosts and rougarous, but c’mon, Dean,” Sam’s voice turned quietly pleading, “after all the crap we’ve been through lately, blowing off a little steam wouldn’t be a bad thing, right?”

Dean frowned a moment longer before he glanced over at his brother and was completely screwed by the puppy eyes leveled at him full bore. He sighed, and it was slightly put on, “Alright, alright, fine. A little R-and-R after the job won’t kill us...probably.” Given it was New Orleans it was not entirely unlikely, however.

The grin that split Sam’s face made him look years younger and the fist pump that accompanied it even more so. 

“Yes! Cas, you’re gonna love it. The history of the place is really deep, and the lore hardly touches the, I don’t know, the vibe of the city,” Sam related with relish as he looked at his friend in the backseat again.

“That would probably be the convergence of several major ley lines that meet in the city,” the ex-angel intoned. “Even humans without psychic gifts could, ostensibly, be receptive to the energies concentrated there, if they were open minded enough.”

“Sam,” Dean interjected, “Now I know you and Cas get big research bone-” Dean paused and changed his wording, still smarting a bit from the ex-angel’s dig, “-are really into the history and crap but c’mon! This is the Big Easy! We’re not spending vacation hanging out in occult bookstores and voodoo museums. Hell, we could fill our own store with the crap we already know!” 

He wagged a finger between his brother and the man in the backseat and ignored the huffy noise Castiel made. “No way, we’re going to do this right. Booze, hit Harrod’s for a little gambling, paint the town red,” Dean promised, his previous reluctance trickling away the more he spoke. “Just don’t go bringing any hookers back to the room, Cas.” He winked in the rearview mirror and was pleased to see the ex-angel’s eyes widen suddenly.

“...hookers?” Castiel said faintly and, Dean noted with smug satisfaction, he swallowed nervously, his expression mirror-identical to the panicky one he’d carried in the brothel years ago. Served him right, the sassy little prick.

“Gross, Dean!” Sam chided and smacked the back of his hand against his brother’s arm. “Don’t listen to him, Cas. There’s not going to be any hookers.”

Even though Dean had a strict no-cash-for-ass policy, mostly because he never needed to pay for it when he could put in a bit more charm and get it for free, a little feisty Southern belle with a drawl thick as molasses would be just the thing to bleach the image of Cas dropping that towel from his brain. 

“Speak for yourself, Sammy!” The hunter’s foot pressed down towards the floorboard.


	9. The Big Sleazy

If they’d been in any other city but New Orleans the three hunters might have garnered more than a passing look as they trekked glumly down Dauphine Street. Also the Saints had just won a playoff game to advance to the NFC championship, so the fact that the 3 of them were splashed with yellowish goo hardly merited a raised eyebrow.

“I’m never getting this out of my hair,” Sam complained as he tried to wipe his face off and only succeeded in smearing the mess further.

“It's...ugh it's in my mouth,” Castiel groused before he paused at a curb to make a disgusting horking noise and spit several times into the gutter. He looked like a bucket of yellow slime had been dumped over his head. 

Apparently that’s what happens when you cram an angel blade into the skull of a grunch. Decades of hunting and Winchesters were still learning new things.

Dean made sure to walk a few feet away from the other two; he was practically spotless except for a splash on one arm as he’d had the presence of mind to duck behind one of the tombstones in Lafayette Cemetery No. 2 when the creature had unexpectedly exploded, dousing his brother and the ex-angel in the supernatural equivalent of Nickelodeon slime.

“Thing looked like a hellhound and a chupacabra had a tequila-based fling over Spring Break,” he said with a dry chuckle, shaking his head before getting a whiff of his two less fortunate companions. “Uegh, you guys reek.”

“This whole place reeks,” Castiel pointed out as he stepped over a suspicious looking puddle at the curb.

“I forgot the Quarter tends to smell like piss,” Sam sighed as he tried to flick grunch sludge off his hands.

“Yeah, well that’s the charm of the place. You just gotta take in the atmosphere and roll with it.” Dean took an exaggerated deep inhale and regretted it. “Yeah, okay, that’s just funky. Where the hell is this place anyway, Sammy?” he queried, looking up and down the street, annoyed he had to leave baby in a parking garage. He was also sick of carrying all their duffel bags, but neither Sam nor Castiel wanted to slime what clean possessions they had left.

Given the narrow streets of the quarter and the shifty looking fuckers on every corner, like hell he was going to street park her and let some drunk piss on her side panels.

“Another block, on the right. Course, if I’d know we were going to check in covered in grunch guts I would have picked a shittier place,” Sam said, a note of apology in his voice that made sense to Dean when he spotted the hotel. An actual hotel, not some rattrap where the rooms were available by either the night or the hour, like their usual digs. A rather scarily nice one too, based on the guys in tidy green uniforms out front opening the door to the lobby for guests and others unloading matching luggage from the trunk of a luxury sedan.

Fancy joint like this was earily 10 steps above were they usually bunked down for the night, but it wasn’t like it was their credit they were ruining. Also, it was Castiel’s first trip to the Big Easy and his first actual vacation in, literally, an eternity. So, okay, Dean understod why his baby bro splurged a bit.

“Alright, Thing 1 and Thing 2, stay out here. Can’t have you stinking up the place before we even get a room key.” He dropped the 3 heavy duffels at their feet and turned on his heel to jog down the sidewalk to the hotel, ID and credit card of one Mr. William Rose at the ready. 

Castiel opened his mouth, clearly ready to object to being called a thing, when Sam clapped a large hand on his shoulder and shook his head. “He’s just messing with us, Cas.”

“I’m not in the mood. I’m tired, I am covered in monster gore, and some of it went down my pants.” The ex-angel huffed and slouched against the side of the building, heedless of the muck he would likely leave behind.

Sam spent a minute scraping his shoes against the curb, trying to de-slime, before he sighed. “Ok, so, not exactly the hunt we planned. But we killed the monster, no one’s hurt, and now we can enjoy a couple days off,” he offered as a peace offering to the decidedly mulish looking former angel. “C’mon, Cas, you have to admit this is sort of funny.” He gestured at the two of them with a game smile.

The new human looked over the younger Winchester, his his long dark hair plastered down to his head with yellow goo and his jacket liberally splashed. The noise he made might have passed for a croaky bark of a laugh, if Sam had ever heard him laugh before and had a baseline for comparison. 

Sam thought it was still damn weird to see Castiel doing something as seemingly normal as laughing. Even if his attitude was still as surly and overly serious as it had ever been as an angel, every day he was settling into his humanity more, developing his own individual tics and quirks. It unsettled Sam sometimes.

A little R-and-R was exactly what the three of them needed, maybe Castiel even more than the brothers. Sam was pretty positive the guy had never had an actual day off in his life, which sounded exhausting considering his friend was hundreds of millennia old. Castiel was long overdue for some slacking off.

The Big Easy was exactly the sort of place to do just that: kick back, unwind, tie a couple one for good measure. It wasn't quite as debauched as Vegas; there actually were other things to do in the city besides gamble, get fucked up, and chase tail. If that’s what Dean wanted to do Sam wouldn’t stop his older brother. It didn’t necessarily mean Sam wouldn’t indulge in a couple of those things himself, but he definitely wanted to do stuff you could only do in the Crescent City, and he was determined to make Castiel sample them too.

“Look, Cas, we’ll get cleaned up, go out and I promise,” he emphasized, deliberately laying on the puppy eyes he knew worked so well against his sibling, “We’ll get you one of the best meals of your life. New Orleans is famous for its food.”

Castiel seemed nearly as susceptible as Dean to Sam’s entreaties as his grim expression morphed to something a bit more accepting. “Fine. Best meal. I’m holding you to that. And I want a drink, several actually.”

Sam opened his mouth to chuckle but was interrupted by a short whistle as Dean sauntered around the corner wagging a couple of room key cards. “We’re good. This way,” he said as he grabbed their bags and jerked his head at the hotel courtyard on the corner. “Skip the lobby so no one else has to smell you. Bad enough I have to.”

“Dibs on the shower,” Castiel exclaimed and bodily shouldered past Sam the second the door opened.

“Hey! You can’t call dibs,” the younger Winchester protested in disbelief. “Dean, tell him!” Sam turned a plaintive expression on his older brother.

“I can, and I did,” Castiel retorted as he practically ripped his disgusting shirt over his head and immediately dumped it in the trash bin next to the desk. 

Dean’s chuckle turned into a strangled cough as Castiel proceeded to yank at his belt, clearly intent on undressing then and there. “Cas! He’s right. No dibs. Rock, paper, scissors, you know that man.” 

Castiel leveled the brothers with a flat look for a long moment before he raised one fist over his flat palm. Dean grinned as he watched the ex-angel and his brother 1-2-3-shoot! 

“Always with the rock, Sam." An unmistakable smirk appeared on his face, and he proceeded to kick out of his boots as his hands dropped to his jeans’ waistband once more.

Dean spun on his heel to give his little brother a jackass grin until he heard the bathroom door shut firmly behind the ex-angel. “You gotta go scissors against him, man,” he confided, leveling a finger at him.

“Shut up, jerk, you always throw scissors,” Sam muttered as he started stripping out of his own gross layers, not quite as bad off Castiel’s but still not pleasant. Looked like they were going to have to put the trash out early when Sam shoved his own shirt in the can with disgusted noise.

“Yeah, and he knows that you throw rock because of that, so he goes paper. He’s a sneaky sunnuva bitch.” 

“Yeah, well, _he better not use up all the hot water_!” Sam yelled in the direction of the bathroom.

“You can’t see which finger I am holding up, Sam, but I assure you it is the correct one this time,” Castiel called back through the door.

Dean couldn’t help but snort at that as he sauntered around the room. The first time Castiel tried to give an obscene gesture it had taken them a minute to catch on to why he was pointing up in the air with an even more disgruntled expression than usual. The ex-angel was definitely good for a laugh.

Dean scuffed his old boot against the hardwood, checking the room out. It was larger and a miles swankier than their usual digs on the road. Two queen beds and a huge sofa that apparently folded out. Desk, flat screen TV, coffee maker. 

“Ooh, mini fridge!” He rubbed his hands together when he spied the contents and immediately poured out mini bottles of Southern Comfort into actual glasses and not cheap plastic cups. Living the high life now.

“C’mon, Sammy, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere!” he urged, pushing the glass at his brother.

“It’s after 6, dumbass,” Sam replied as he took the glass and slowly drained the contents, unlike his brother who tossed it back with an unnecessary amount of lip smacking.

“Guess we better catch up then.” Dean poured two more drinks for them and a third for when Castiel finished cleaning up then went over to peer out the French doors on the opposite side of the room. His discovery of a small balcony with a green awning and white painted rocking chairs had him kicking his feet up in no time.

Thank God, or some one less dickish, for fraudulent credit. Usually the guys stayed a bit further below the radar but apparently Sam figured the world owed them, for the Apocalypse That Wasn’t at the very least, and they were allowed a couple nights at something higher than a 2-star dump.

They’d left behind stinging wind and sleet and temps still dropping below freezing overnight in Kansas, but early March in New Orleans was damn pleasant, mid-60s and sunny as shit. 

The tinny strains of a zydeco tune drifted up to Dean from the street musicians down on Delphine; they were everywhere in the quarter. You couldn’t turn to take a piss without running into someone with a saxaphone or a harmonic or a banjo in this town. Even though it wasn’t his usual music, one of Dean’s booted feet wagged from side to side in time with the tune. 

Last time he’d been here it had been boozy drinks and drunk coeds up to his eyeballs. Maybe this time he’d make a bit of time to go check out the local music. In between the booze and co-eds, of course.

“Hey, Sammy, this place doesn’t suck,” he called over his shoulder.

“I know right?” Sam replied, poking his still gross head out the door. “I know we usually stay in shitholes, but New Orleans shitholes are too much even for me. Remember that dump in the Irish Channel?”

“Oh christ, the stains on the floor, _on the ceiling_? I’ll never forget. And that dive down the street? Thin pickings, I remember that too.” He tilted his his back to crack a grin at his brother. “And I remember that tall chick who wasn’t a chick you almost brought back to the room.” Dean laughed, rocking back in his chair. 

“That was you, stupid.”

“...what?”

Sam snorted and shook his head. “Another reason you shouldn’t get too hammered; your beer goggles are the worst.” 

Dean cocked his head to one side as he fished through a decidedly hazy memory. “Huh.” Right, adam's apple.

Sam rolled his eyes, “Look, I promised Cas we’d get some good food in him, so don’t drink your dinner before we even leave the room.”

“Jeez, calm down, Betty Ford, fine,” Dean grumbled and silently resolved to stop at this second drink, at least until after they ate. “S’pposed to be vacation, bitch.” 

He was absolutely not pouting at the implication he was a problem drinker. He didn’t have a problem drinking; he had problems and having a drink helped, sue him. He had a fucked up job.

“Yeah, and I’d rather not spend this one explaining to Cas about transvestites.”

“I know what a transvestite is.”

Dean and Sam both jumped at the gravelly voice.

“Damnit, Cas, we need to put a bell on you!”

“No, you don’t,” the ex-angel replied mildly as he ruffled a towel over his head, his other hand holding his own glass of whiskey as he plunked down in the chair next to Dean. He had on his last pair of jeans and a maroon Henley, feet bare for the moment, and they went up on the railing alongside the elder Winchester’s boots. “Shower’s free, Sam.”

“How the hell do you know about transvestites?” Dean asked as Sam practically ran for the bathroom.

“I know about a lot of things,” Castiel intoned before tipping up his glass and grimacing a bit as the whiskey burned down then sighed as he visibly relaxed into the chair. “Should I ask why you and Sam were discussing that particular topic?”

“Nope.” Dean popped his lips on the word and studiously did not look at Castiel but down the street where the music was picking up tempo.

“Fair enough.” They sat in silence for a few minutes, each taking slow sips as they listened to the melody that always seemed to fill the quarter from sun up until well after sun down. 

After a while, Dean noticed Castiel tapped his foot in time with the music, heel rocking up and down with his bare ankles crossed over the balcony railing. The movement struck him as so incredibly human. So...un-Castiel.

Which was stupid because he knew Castiel was human, he’d been that way for over 6 months. Sure he’d been eating and exercising and getting hurt just like them, bleeding and bitching and being a grouchy cuss in the morning, but for some reason right now the full extent of it smacked Dean in the face. He turned slightly to look at the man next to him, because that’s what he was.

Castiel wasn't a soldier of heaven anymore, who'd once been all tight restraint and economy of motion, often standing so still and silent he could pass for a statue. Castiel was just a dude now, having a drink, bopping his foot to some catchy music, scratching his cheek at the moment before rolling his head on his neck and sighing when it audibly popped. 

Despite the still not infrequent bird-brained social stupidity that reminded Dean his friend wasn’t from the neighborhood, at the end of the day Castiel was just a guy now. Just like them, only with a photographic memory, the whole store of the world’s languages, and, if possible, an even bigger give-’em-hell attitude than Dean. 

Dean needed to get something in his brain hardwired to deal with that and quickly because the sudden ache in his chest as he watched Castiel start minutely nodding his head along as the tune picked up the tempo was really goddamn painful.

As much as Heaven had been populated by dickbags and ever since they’d met the angels their lives had been one series of world-shattering disasters after another, Castiel has always been something different. Something pretty damn amazing. He’d been bigger than anything Dean had ever tried to comprehend; it was so much easier to just think of him as this dorky little guy who had some handy powers and knowledge rather than try to wrap his brain around the whole “bigger than your Chrysler building” and “wavelength of celestial intent” deal. 

But seeing Castiel do something so fucking mundane and entirely, pathetically, pointlessly human? It hit Dean hard, the height from which his friend had well and truly fallen.

“Fuck.”

“Hm?” Castiel inquired wordlessly as he raised his glass for another slow swallow of amber liquid.

“Uh...nothing...I mean...just thinking you’ve never had, like, real down time before,” Dean covered because there was no fucking way he was going to discuss the depressing crap that was actually on his mind. “So we should make sure you have a hell of a trip, right?”

Castiel opened his mouth, the pinch that always appeared between his eyebrows when he was about to argue already present. Dean didn’t bother to examine why he knew the stupid eyebrow thing so well.

Dean cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Just yanking your chain with the hookers, dude. The food around here is some of the best you’ll ever have and, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he inclined his head in the general direction the zydeco was coming. “Hell of a music town.”

The ex-angel took his feet down from the railing and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, as though in an attitude of deep contemplation. He looked so goddamn serious, Dean wondered if somewhere he’d stepped in it somehow. But how the hell did you go wrong with good food and music?

“That sounds fine, Dean, but…” Castiel looked conflicted, and he rubbed his lower lip with his index finger in a gesture the hunter had learned meant the guy was pondering something a little more ponderously than usual. “You mentioned a casino...gambling…”

“Crap, right, one of the 10 commandments or some shit. We don’t have to do that, Cas,” Dean offered immediately. Okay, maybe he was a little bummed he wouldn’t get a chance to hit the tables, but he’d live. Besides there was always Vegas week.

Instead of relief or gratitude the expression on Castiel’s face was more exasperated. “It’s a good thing you’re aesthetically pleasing, Dean,” he retorted with a definite laugh, the noise closer to a rough bark than anything. Nothing about the ex-angel’s voice was ever going to be melodic. 

He’d once remarked he believed channeling his divine voice through Jimmy’s vessel for several years had permanently damaged the body’s vocal cords, so he was always going to sound rough. Dean had responded that he thought Castiel's voice sounded like the morning after a bottle of bad scotch and carton of cigarettes. Which was actually a good thing, he'd attempted to reassure, manly as hell. He'd shut up right after that.

“Ah, screw you,” Dean grumbled and slouched in his chair.

“Gambling is not against God’s will. Casting lots, throwing dice, is all over the Bible. Joshua did it in God’s presence to divide land among the Israelite tribes. No, I want to try gambling...specifically blackjack.”

Dean perked up at that. “Twenty-one, huh? What’s the sudden and suspiciously specific interest in blackjack, Cas?”

“I have an eidetic memory, and my ability to calculate complex mathematics in my head is one of the less challenging mental feats I can still accomplish.”

“Oh, now you’re just showing off, Cas,” Dean quipped and sat up to gesture for his friend to continue.

“Counting cards. I think I can do that.”

Dean blinked dumbly at his friend, surprised as hell, and was about to make some sort of knee-jerk response about how that’s cheating. Then he remembered he was a Winchester and hustling was in his blood. Looked looked like it might be in Castiel's too, and it made sense. 

Since when had Castiel ever follow the script? He’d said from the start he’d not been sent to earth to perch on Dean’s shoulder, be his conscience, guide him down any one moral path. He was a soldier, leader of a garrison for shit’s sake; he’d done bloody, violent, and definitely terrible things. He’d torn up the rule book and forged his own path, killed friend and foe alike for the craziest damn reasons. The damn clothes he wore and the weapons he carried, so naturally they were becoming extensions of his body, were all stolen or bought on cards so hot they burned a hole in his pocket.

Dean swung his legs off the railing and let his boots hit the balcony deck with a thump. “You sneaky little fucker.” His voice was full of nothing but admiration for his friend in that moment. “I got a deck in my bag, show me. But casinos use 6 to 8 in a shoe, so let's see what you got.”

By the time Sam got out of his interminably long shower, flowing brown locks all fluffy and perfect again because he'd totally used the blowdryer in the bathroom, Dean and Cas were sitting with their heads practically touching as they leaned over the desk. Card were slapped down quickly, Castiel assinging them values of +1s and -1s when each was revealed and shot back to Dean the running count. Dean was muttering things like “this is when you start doubling down, man, but not every hand” and “yeah, you can split but never when you got face cards" and "a 12 deck, you think so? showoff." 

“Guys,” Sam ventured, a bit concerned because Dean had this downright gleeful grin on his face and it was the itching powder in the shorts one. “What are you doing?” Even more worrisome was that Castiel had a matching one on his own face.

“Rainman,” Castiel supplied, “Without the developmental disorder.”

Dean clapped his hand together as he laughed then spread them at Castiel, as though displaying him for his brother. “Turns out he’s actually seen the movie!” he exclaimed proudly.

“I’m going to need bail money, aren’t I?” Sam groaned and went to check his wallet.


	10. Aces and Eights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thought it was time to to let the boys cut loose and have some fun in Nawlins!

In between huge bites of classic NOLA sandwiches, and pleased moans that were borderline indecent for public, Dean and Sam drilled Castiel on blackjack rules and fundamentals.

“You got a combined total of 8 or less always hit, always,” Sam managed to get out around a huge mouthful of something called the Da Yat po-boy. Usually the one to make bitchfaces at his older brother for poor table manners, Sam apparently let all that fly as he tried to take down the gumbo smothered fried oyster sandwich in as few bites as possible. “Holy shit, this is even better than I remember, you gotta try this, Cas.” He pushed over his basket which held a second sandwich, as all of the men had elected to get a couple each. Castiel picked it up, heedless of how messy it was, and took a bite, and his eyes widened in delight as Sam grinned at him.

While ordering Dean announced it was important to lay a grease and bread foundation to soak up all the booze they’d likely drink later. Castiel tried to argue that didn’t sound like a scientifically reasonable claim, but when Dean waved something called a DA-Bris in front of him he decided somethings were more important than quibbling over semantics with his friend. 

“Total 8, right,” he nodded as his jaw worked in a slow circle. “If the dealer shows a 3 through 6 I double down, 2 or 7 I hit.”

Dean nodded and grunted in agreement between bites of fried okra. “It’s fried, the only way to eat a vegetable,” he’d proclaimed when ordering and Sam, like clockwork, started in on his brother out about dying of heart disease before 40.

Castiel didn’t give a shit, everything was delicious and it was likely he’d get his head ripped off on a hunt long before he had a chance to develop arteriosclerosis. Despite the nearly 40 years on his vessel, it had been pristinely, perfectly healthy up until he fell human. Not even a cavity, thanks to angelic healing of any and all physical defects and physiological issues. Slightly misaligned C4 vertebrae? Gone. Mild nearsightedness that required Jimmy to put on drugstore reading glasses when tackling small script. Now 20/20.

It would probably take him decades to eat, drink, and work himself to death. The virgin liver came in handy, keeping pace with the Winchesters otherwise would have been a serious challenge.

“Yeah, you got it, and a 10 or an 11?” Sam queried as he tried to sneak one of his brother’s okra, only to get the back of his hand smacked and an actual growl from Dean. “Jeez, food aggressive much, Dean? What are you, a dog?”

“Just that one time, dude,” Dean countered and took mercy on his little bro by throwing one then 2 pieces of okra at him that Sam managed to catch in his mouth, a trick they’d done many times before just to entertain themselves.

Castiel shook his head, conflicted as to whether he was relieved or disappointed he’d missed that particular case Sam had told him about. The notion of Dean exhibiting canine behaviors could have been amusing or extremely worrisome. Although the mental image of the hunter barking at the mailman was undeniably funny, no matter how you looked at it.

Castiel made an amused noise at the brothers’ antics, glad they were getting along better these days, years of antagonism and butting heads dissipating as they worked together to include the ex-angel in small space their lives allowed such attachments. “What’s the dealer showing?”

Dean swallowed audibly and paused before cramming his face again. “”A ten.”

“If I’ve 10 I hit, if I’ve 11, I double down.”

“Pair of 6s?”

“Split and hit.”

“Pair of Queens?”

“Never split. Stand.”

“And you think you can remember all that and keep your count going?” Dean traded looks with his brother, but their silent conversations were pretty transparent to Castiel by now. Sam was plainly in the “He’s got this” camp while Dean was closer to “Eh, give it a shot?” territory. Still, it was a huge improvement over outright dismissal.

Castiel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he remember he had a wadded up napkin somewhere on the table amidst the culinary carnage they were wrecking. 

“Positive...just don’t let me drink much at the table. I know they provide free alcohol because that want to cloud judgement and take our money.”

Dean wadded up his own napkin after a final push through his second sandwich. “Aaah, shit that was good. Sounds like a plan, Cas.” He patted his belly a couple of times before shooting a finger at his brother. “More drinks for us.”

Sam rolled his eyes before finishing meal. “Pacing, Dean, ever heard of it? Anyway, we should let Cas get a feel for the game at the low limit tables first, play with him, then see how it goes.”

“I think prudence is the wisest course of action,” Castiel agreed.

Four hours later the two brothers hovered at Castiel’s shoulder, having long ago stopped playing themselves when they hustled the ex-angel out of the low limit table area when he start hitting his stride, along with a small crowd watching him play. He picked up a generous stack of chips and slid them forward a few inches, split his 6s then doubled down on one hand when he reached 11 and simply hit on the other. When his hands of 20 and 19, respectively, beat the dealers 18 there was an audible relieved exhale from the onlookers.

“Holy shit, Cas, that was ballsy,” Sam crowed and landed his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders and squeezed as the ex-angel scooped in the not insubstantial addition to his chip pile and neatly stacked them in the order he preferred.

“Strategy,” he muttered and licked his lips, his throat dry from the overly conditioned air in the casino and the unavoidable scent of stale cigarettes. An ice water appeared at his elbow as Dean pushed it at him and took away the beer he’d been nursing so slowly it was now room temperature. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Cas,” Dean chuckled as dropped the empty on the waitress tray and took fresh brews for himself and Sam. “You’re on a helluva roll, but,” he ducked his head down to mutter closer to Castiel’s ear, “dude with the earpiece and the just sucked a lemon face over there is the pit boss, and he’s getting antsy. Might want to bow out, dude.”

Castiel rolled his head on his neck, sighing as it popped, and caught a glance of the man who was, indeed, quite sour faced. He turned back to Dean and murmured lowly. “Four more hands? It’s 9 now.” He plucked the beer from Dean’s grip and held his eye steadily as he tipped it back, hoping his friend understood he meant his mental count was well above the favorable margin, and it would an error to stop now when the shoe was so getting so low on cards.

Dean nodded and stood up straight, nudging Sam with his shoulder. “We’re packing it up in a few, Sammy, order us some shots while they’re still free.”

Castiel was playing 2 hands now on every deal, cutting his losses on one every turn or taking a push when the dealer showed the same. Not winning or losing, just stripping a few more cards out of the deck shoe with one hand and with the other playing aggressively by doubling down almost every time, raising his bets quickly and winning the next two deals easily. Dean asked the cocktail waitress who brought their shots to get them for a tray for their chips because there was no way they could cram that many in their pockets. 

He grinned from ear to ear and turned to pass off the shots to his brother and Castiel, ready to toast, toss them down and get the hell out of them with a decent chunk of change when he heard the burst of grumbles around the table.

“Cas...the hell did you just do?” he heard Sam ask faintly as he blinked, unwilling to believe his eyes at the pair of Queens Cas just split into two hands. 

If he thought it was bad now it got _so much worse_ when Castiel divided his chips and went all in on both hands.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Dean muttered as Sam clutched his arm. No kidding, those po-boys were about to make a reappearance.

“We should wait until we’re outside to kill him, too many cameras in here,” the younger Winchester whispered, his grip on Dean’s bicep tight because he knew the man was likely to lose his shit as the dealer started laying out the cards; she was showing a 7.

Dean was torn between not looking, just waiting for the noise of the crowd to tell him how badly they were boned, or watching the greatest disappointment of his life unfold. This would easily outstrip Lucifer wearing Sam to the prom and that threesome with the twins that ended prematurely because Dean had whiskey dick. 

_Ace_

_Ace_

“Son of a bitch,” Dean and Sam exclaimed together when Castiel hit 21 on both hands and looked over his shoulder with a wide grin that was entirely brand new on his face, crinkling his nose and the corners of his eyes. He didn’t even turn back to look as the dealer laid out her own cards.

_Five_

_Four_

A shitty 16, the worst hand you can get, so easy to bust, so easy to fall short.

_Jack_

The noise Castiel made when Sam bodily lifted him out of his chair and into a bear hug was undignified, to say the least. Dean would have classified as a squawk except he too busy high fiving anyone within reach and keeping a very close eye on their chips as the dealer started stacking them into their tray. He waved off the offer from the pit boss of a security escort to the cashier’s cage and out of the casino, confident that if anyone messed with Team Free Will they’d definitely bite off more than they bargained for. 

“Sam,” Castiel protested as he resorted to putting a hand on the man’s face to push out of the fierce hug. “Put me down, damnit!” 

Although placed on his feet Castiel found himself in a jovial version of a headlock as Sam and Dean practically dragged him to the cashier, their hands alternately slapping him on the back, the head, or punching him the shoulders. 

“Why must your affection be so painful?” Castiel complained as he finally shoved out of their grip and stood before the teller. When his head cocked to the side upon the inquiry about cash or a check, Sam leaned forward and walked him through the process, including providing his fake driver’s license and even more fraudulent social security number in exchange for a tax form none of them had any intention of reading before it wound up in the trash.

“Five grand cash, the rest in a cashier’s check,” Sam suggested. “Carrying around that much dough in New Orleans is just dumb. “ Castiel nodded, despite his confidence anyone foolish enough to mess with the three of them would be lucky if they lived to regret it. He accepted the neat stack of bills and an innocuous slip of paper that signified a hell of a lot more then passed everything to the brothers automatically. Sam pocketed the cash while Dean fanned himself with the check.

“Twenty seven thousand five hundred smackaroonies,” Dean crowed before kissing the check. “Cas, you are THE MAN!”

“I’ll assume that’s a compliment and not a long overdue observation on my gender,” he replied. Castiel’s usually more reserved and surly demeanor was completely undermined by the pleased smile he couldn’t wipe off his face. “I believe you both owe me a drinks. Many of them.”

“You heard the man, Sammy, drinks for THE MAN!”

“Hell yeah!” Sam agreed readily and plunked an arm over Castiel’s shoulder as he steered him in the direction of the exit. “Only let’s get them somewhere else .The pit boss is still giving us the stink eye.”

Thankfully, Castiel waited until they were on the sidewalk before pointing out. “Counting cards isn’t illegal. I checked on the Google.”

“Doesn’t mean they like it, Cas,” Dean said airily with a grin, shambling up the sidewalk on Poydras and leading them to Magazine in order to get back into the Quarter proper. “But dude, I can’t believe you split those Queens! I almost refunded dinner!”

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam chimed in, “I mean, it worked out and all, but that was still a big chance even if the shoe was low.”

“Not really,” the ex-angel demurred. “I knew what was left: 5 face cards, 3 aces, 3 fives, 2 tens, 2 fours, a 2, 5, 7, 9….what?” Both brothers stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and Castiel walked right out from under Sam’s arm before he noticed. “Statistically, I had a much higher chance of receiving 19 or higher in the next draw than the dealer by a substantial margin. The odds of them busting over me was in excess of 8 to 1.”

Dean held up his hands. “Wait a second, wait a second! Are you telling me you didn’t just count cards you...memorized them?”

“Yes.” He gave them a look that plainly said that was obvious.

Sam pushed forward. “You kept track...of a multi-deck shoe...knew how many of every card there was left...as you played…” He spoke slowly as though to someone slightly less intelligent than a guinea pig.

Castiel hissed between his teeth, equally patronizing, “Yessssss. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I want one of those Hurricanes this city is supposedly famous for.” He turned on his heel and started walking as he tossed over his shoulder, “The drink, not the weather phenomenon.”

Sam and Dean blinked at each other a few times before Dean clapped his hands together in mirth and pushed Sam to follow the ex-angel now marching down Magazine on a quest for copious quantities of alcohol. 

“Rainman’s got nothing on him!”

Three bars, 5 hours, and one half-assed attempt at karaoke that resulted in Dean being quickly abandoned to finish singing “Midnight Rider” solo, later the three men plunked down of the grass around the pavillion in Woldenberg Park on the riverfront. Well, two of them plunked, Sam wound up flat on his back between them with his go-cup cradled on his stomach. 

“Good call on th’ Bloody Marys, Dean,” the younger Winchester announced from his prone position. 

His brother nodded, head bobbing up and down more loosely than usual. “Years of ‘sperience, Sammy. Hey, heeey,” he dropped his hand down to slap his brother’s leg. “You pass out Imma leave you, ya big moose.”

“No, you won’t.” Castiel pointed at Dean, his speech still level and sure, “If he passes out you and I are going to drag him back to the hotel.” The finger that he was wagging unsteadily back and forth between them was now pointing back at the ex-angel’s face, and his eyes crossed as he stared at it. He then he joined Sam by lying flat on his back, mirroring the man by holding his cup on his stomach and looking up at the few stars still visible through the city’s light pollution and the faint streaks of impending dawn over the Mississippi.

“Ugh, hate it when you’re right, Cas,” Dean groaned and planted his hands behind himself to resist the urge to sink back on the grass alongside the other two. 

“I know, and it’s a burden I’m willing to bear,” he returned lazily, enjoying the way the the sky spun overhead. It might have been him spinning, he wasn’t positive.

“You’re short,” Sam piped up with a distinct blur in his voice. “And, like, really sassy now. Wazzup with that, Cas?”

“I’m the same height I’ve always been.” 

Sam rolled his head to squint at the ex-angel. “You used t’ be the size of the Chrysler building...izzint this a comedown for you?”

The noise he made was noncommittal.

“He used to belong to a much muuuuuch better club,” Dean drawled, recalling some distant conversation he once had, or maybe would one day have, with Castiel.

“I wouldn’t say that, it’s just...different,” Castiel mumbled before raising his head a few inches to take another sip from his own Bloody Mary. “Food’s better. Drinks too.” He raised his cup up in the air and two more appeared in his field of vision to clunk into it clumsily.

“You’re still shorter,” Sam insisted. 

“Am not!” Castiel shot back and struggled to sit up, as though verticality would lend a bit more strength to that comeback.

“Are too! Dean tell ’em!” 

“Ah shaddap, Sammy, everyone’s short to you.” Dean reached over his brother’s prone form and grabbed Castiel by his shoulder to heft the struggling ex-angel upright. “Don’ listen to ‘em, Cas, he’s stupid cuz the air’s thin up there.”

“But he’s laying d- ooooh.” Castiel nodded, his head bouncing as though on a hinge. “It’s a joke. I got that one.” He grinned suddenly, loose and wide, and Dean blinked at the appearance of crow’s feet at the corners of his friend’s eyes. Castiel had crow’s feet and they’d just get deeper over the years. He’d get grey hair and scars and all of it would stick.

“Yes, it will,” the ex-angel agreed, and it took a minute for Dean to realized he’d said that out loud. 

“S’just weird. Used to you just going…” It took Dean two tries to successfully snap his fingers. “And same old Cas. No blood or nothing. Like you took a big eraser and just-” He scrubbed his hand in the air as though swiping clean a blackboard.

“Well, I never…” Castiel gave up snapping after a half dozen failed attempts and rocked forward to sit Indian style with his elbows on his knees. “But whenever I healed everything was...reset to factory new, how Jimmy was when I-” He fluttered a hand aimlessly in front of him, communicating without words the crazy and larger than life concept of angelic occupation.

Dean squinted and raised his cup to take a swallow to find only ice and a celery stick poking him in the cheek. “Ew.” He picked out the green and dropped it in his brother’s cup, which made Sam raise his again in a silent toast.

“Fact’ry new, huh? Hey, hey, hey.” Dean patted Castiel on the back. “Been meanin’ t’ ask you sumthin’. When you did the whole stickin’ me back in my body, how come I din’t have any hellhound scars but wound up with th’ -” Dean tried to roll up his sleeve and it took him a minute to realize he was wearing a flannel and that the handprint scar over his shoulder had faded a few years ago. He gave up and rolled his shoulder instead.

Castiel cocked his head and it nearly unbalanced him so he plunked his chin in his hand. “I told you, I gr-”

“Gripped you tight and raised you from perdition!” Sam crowed from the ground between them. “Thassa hell of a opening line, Cas, just FYI.”

Dean and Castiel looked over Sam’s sprawled form, at his goofy grin, then snorted in unison. 

“Yer drunk,” Dean pointed out.

“Yer drunk!” Sam shot back.

“We’re all shitfaced, let’s be honest,” Castiel added.

“Anyway, so wuzza th’ deal with th’...” Dean asked again, hitching his shoulder up and down. 

“You remember Balthazar?” the ex-angel asked, suddenly the king of non sequiturs.

“Hated Celine Dion,” Sam supplied. “Don’t blame ‘em.”

“Eurotrash accent? Mister ménage à twelve? Course I ‘member him, Cas.” 

“For a piece of the staff of Moses, he put a claim on that boy’s soul.” Castiel’s face was morose at the reminder, of his own ill behavior during that time, of his later treatment of Balthazar.

“Yeah, an’ you did th’ soul-ectomy on the kid to read it an’...” Dean’s gaze narrowed, and he looked over the river. Something slipped around in the boozy quagmire of his thoughts and he couldn’t quite get a grasp on it. 

“Izzit like a angel tramp stamp!?” Sam queried as he struggled to sit upright.

“NO!!” Both Castiel and Dean yelled, although Castiel wasn’t entirely clear on what a tramp stamp was he certainly didn’t put one on Dean.

“HA! Yeah, it is!” Sam laughed, gesturing in his brother’s direction, and splashed Bloody Mary onto the grass and his jeans. 

“You’re fucking sloppy, shaddap!” Dean shoved his brother, and he bumped into Castiel on his opposite side.

“Give me that!” Castiel snatched the drink from Sam before he could upend it entirely. He downed the last of it and smacked his lips obnoxiously before tossing the cup over his shoulder to land in the grass. After a minute he got up to pick up his refuse, feeling a bit guilty.

Dean and Sam were busy in a brotherly shoving back and forth that was on the edge of degenerating into an outright wrestling match. Castiel slowly circumnavigated them to pick up the other discarded cups and focused his flagging concentration to walk a fairly straight line towards the waste receptacle.

When he saw the woman going through the trash can, his head cocked to one side and he nearly lost his balance, throwing out a hand to land on an adjacent bench to keep himself upright. The memory of doing the same thing months ago, foraging for food, cans to recycle, was suddenly as vivid before his glassy eyes as if it had been only the day before.

She had the gaunt, sunken look of someone who’d gone without adequate food or rest for a while, and her dark hair shot through with gray was tied back in a loose braid then flopped over her shoulder as she rooted in the bin. Castiel watched as she carefully withdrew her hands and in them was a greasy white bag with the name Cafe Du Monde printed on the side in green.

She looked up to see him staring from a bit too close and stepped back quickly, clutching the bag to her chest. 

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Castiel offered, suddenly quite glad that while his balance was unsteady his voice was level. “I just needed to…” He gestured with the cups in his hands and felt a swell of sadness when her eyes followed them, focused on the pathetic stalks of celery still in the cups.

“I have money,” he ventured.

“I ain’t a hooker!” she snapped, eyes narrowed fiercely. 

“I didn’t...I mean...I just…” Castiel floundered and reached into his pocket, fumbling with the wad of money Sam had shoved at him when it was Castiel’s turn to wade through the crowds at the bar to refresh their beverages. He gave up trying to stand and sat heavily on the bench and carefully flipped through the currency in his hand. “You should have a proper meal.” He folded the bills in half once more and held them out to her. “A bed too, if you don’t have one.” 

He remembered what it was like to have to sleep on the streets, the struggle each night to find someone place safe, foregoing any comfort in exchange for not getting rolled for what few possessions he had on him.

She sidled a bit closer, cautious, and squinted at him suspiciously then at his outstretched hand. “Yeah?” Her hand flashed out, snatching the money away without touching his fingers, and she scooted back up a few paces to count it. After a minute she glanced at him again. “Ya’ll chockay*.”

“Yes, very much so,” he admitted with a nod that had him leaning too far to the right so he looped his arm over the back of the bench to haul himself to vertical once more. “But that’s yours. Please don’t eat trash.”

She laughed, and it was surprisingly deep, melodious. He suspected if she ever had a reason to sing she would sound lovely. “Hey now, cold’ beignets are good, ya’ll don’ even know.” She opened shook the bag then peered inside. “These got sugar on ‘em, das the best way.” 

“I’ll take you word for it.”

“You should, bes’ in town.” She fished in the bag and edged up to Castiel once more to hold slightly squashed cold fried pastry out to him. “Soak up dat booze, ya’ll wake up feelin’ right as rain, trus’ me.”

“It’s very kind of you to share,” Castiel replied and took the bit of refuse from her with all the solemnity of the devout receiving the Eucharist. 

One corner of her mouth quirked up. “Cold beignet fah this much?” She held up the folded money before tucking it down the front of her hoodie. “Leas’ ah can do.” She looked him up and down appraisingly. “Ya’ll good people.”

“Thank you,” Castiel ducked his head, a bit humbled. 

She nodded once, her head jerking up and down, an acknowledgement and a dismissal in one, before she turned and hurried away.

“Caaaaas,” Dean groaned from where he was trying to haul his brother upright. “A lil’ help?! ‘Bout to have a moose down situation!”

He staggered over and looped one of Sam’s arms over his shoulder and, between the two of them, they managed to get the younger Winchester mostly vertical and walking in the general direction of their hotel, sticking to the riverwalk.

When they paused to take a break all three propped themselves against a railing to watch the sun rise over the river, each squinting into the brightening day. 

“We’re gonna hurt so bad later,” Sam sighed, regret tinging his blurred voice.

“I’m told these soak up the booze.” Castiel opened his hand on the squashed cold pastry he’d neglected to toss.

“Oh, hey, breakfast!” Before either man could stop him Sam plucked the less than appetizing morsel from his hand and popped it in his mouth. “S’cold but still good!”

Dean smirked and leaned back to look around his brother, mouthing _the trash?_ at Castiel who grinned back and nodded. When they missed their attempted high five by several inches, and Dean nearly fell over, it set them all to laughing.

At least until Castiel shared that he traded the money Sam had given him for it, which turned out to be around $1400.

It was only when he was upside down over the railing, with the brothers holding on to his legs and laughing as they threatened to dump him into the Mississippi, that he sobered enough to remind them he’d earned the money and would donate the rest of it charity if they’d didn’t haul him up “RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!” 

Castiel’s last thought, before the three of them practically fell through their hotel room door in a tangle of arms and legs, was that he _really_ needed to learn to swim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chokay = Cajun for drunk


	11. Where did you come from, where did you go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought I abondoned this fic! Nope! I did, however, start a new job and fall down a the rabbit hole starting to watch Teen Wolf and becoming obsessed, but I never forgot this fic!
> 
> Hope to get updates out more regularly again, but will never promise anything as real life yadda yadda. Enjoy.

Castiel woke up, slowly, painfully, to the sound of groaning then the thump of feet and the bang of a door as someone emptied their stomach in the bathroom.

“This is hell...I’m dead and this is hell. There’s no other explanation for how I feel,” the ex-angel muttered, his already croaky voice breaking.

“Shhhh,” someone hissed and something soft landed on his face. A pillow by the feel of it.

“Oh, good, I’m not alone,” he mumbled before dragging it away and jamming it behind his head. He cracked his eyes cautiously to find the brightest sun in existence shining directly across his face.

“Shhhhhhh.”

“Dean, I need coffee or I am going to die,” Castile intoned without any exaggeration. This was it, the end of the line, death by alcohol poisoning or migraine, whichever got to him first.

“Dean’s a little busy right now.”

Castiel regretfully rolled his head to see Sam wearing an expression of both agony and amusement while pointing at the bathroom. The ex-angel squinted and looked around the room from position on his own bed to the sofa they’d never managed to fold out last night, and very fuzzy memory of Dean landing face down on it swam to the surface to his agonized consciousness.

He sat up and immediately regretted it, looking from the bathroom door to Sam sprawled on his own bed fully clothed except for one boot missing, a hand raised and pointing a finger at the source of the retching noise.

“Congrats, Cas, he hasn’t puked in years. Should be proud of ourselves,” Sam mumbled, sounding about as bad as the ex-angel felt.

“I’ll save the celebration for when I’m not in danger of vomiting in that potted plant.”

Dean finally emerged from the bathroom, with a toothbrush in his mouth, looking only marginally better than the other two men. “Not.A.Word.”

Castiel raised his hand in a silent vow while Sam struggled to look amused and only succeeded in looking pained. The younger hunter rolled over in his own bed to fumble for the room phone as Castiel completely missed catching the bottle of Tylenol Dean lobbed at him. 

The room seemed determined it upend itself when the ex-angel made the mistake of leaning over to pick up the pill bottle from the carpet and he stayed like that, slumped over with his head between his knees for a while, eyes closed and trying to still the nausea. He dry swallowed two capsules as the very notion of water made his stomach roil.

“Ugh, Dean, no,” Sam protested when his brother snatched the phone away to add a pitcher of Bloody Marys to the breakfast order. Castiel was thankful to the wisdom of humanity for inventing room service, otherwise it was going to take forever to coax any of the men to leave the room.

“Hair of the dog, Sammy,“ Dean insisted as he put a hand on his brother’s face and pushed him away. Sam fell back on the bed with a groan and put his arms over his head, unwilling to invest any of his limited energy in fighting.

It took 3 pots of coffee, a mountain of bacon and eggs, and an hour of bitching from the Winchesters before Castiel was able to convince them they were significantly recovered enough to venture outside. As the three shambled downstairs, all wearing dark sunglasses, they made the very picture of those who’d overdone it. Castiel did not help the matter by taking a map of the city from a stand by the front desk and opening it as soon as they hit the street.

Dean swatted it immediately. “Jesus, could you look like more of a tourist, Cas?”

“I _am_ a tourist. I was told Marie Laveau's tomb is within the city limits and its reputedly a place of great power.”

“Voodoo queen of New Orleans,” Sam automatically supplied, looking at his brother.

“I know who the hell she is,” Dean protested with a scowl. “And it’s not just from American Horror Story....although Angela Bassett. Wow.” The elder hunter waggled his eyebrows above his shades at his two companions to receive completely unimpressed looks in return. “Anyway,” he coughed, “Why you wanna go there, Cas?”

“If she was truly so powerful there may be a lingering trace of her presence, i.e. a job.” The ex-angel fished in his jacket pocket and produced Dean’s EMF reader, which promptly went into the redzone, whining angrily, and stayed there.

Sam plucked it from his friend’s grasp. “Cas, that thing’s useless here. There’s EMF all over the city; we told you this place is a hotbed for the paranormal. Besides,” he snapped it off and handed it back. “We’ve never had a report of Marie Laveau's ghost being active. Trust me that sort of thing would fly right through the hunter’s network. It’s just some local color, an urban legend.”

Castiel was nonplussed. “Also, I’m told the above ground tombs and mausoleums are quite the local attraction.”

“Leave it to you to want to creep through graveyards even on our day off,” Dean scoffed, but the tone was good natured. “At least let’s get some beignets before we go.”

“You just ate!” Sam pointed out even as he took a left that would take them down to Cafe Du Mond. His status as a health nut was apparently on vacation along with the rest of him..

“As long as they’re not from the trash,” Castiel said in an aside to the elder brother, which earned him a hard slap on the back that made his still somewhat aching head protest loudly.

Armed with overly sugared, delicate, and this time fresh, pastries and a couple of to-go chicory laced cafe au laits they wandered down St. Louis Street on their way the famous to Cemetery No. 1 at a leisurely pace. Past Creole cottages and shotgun houses, a few bars none of them were at all tempted by, as Sam rattled off lore about the city to Castiel like he was getting paid by the Visitor’s Bureau. Dean’s contribution to the walk was trying and failing to show the ex-angel how to eat the powdered sugar encrusted snack without getting it all over his face and shirt.

Once they hit No. 1 they were accosted by some locals who informed the trio it was $5 for the guided tour necessary for access to the cemetery grounds, and Sam had to grab Castiel by his elbow to pull him away when the new human went for his wallet. 

“Don’t listen to them, Cas, it’s a public space, they’re just hustling. We can wander around on our own.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re too trusting, man.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not a born cynic,” the ex-angel grumbled as he turned left down the first row of crypts.

“You don’t have to be a born cynic to develop some frigging streets smarts, Cas,” Dean chided as he followed the ex-angel, his taller brother in tow.

“Dean!” Sam huffed and the older hunter could practically feel the bitchface directed at the back of his head. 

“What, Samantha, what? Just because he kills at the poker table doesn’t mean he can run a real hustle and that’s, like, Hunting 101. Cas, what do humans do when they really, really want something?”

“They lie,” he supplied before taking a right down another row. “I know. Need I remind you I lied to and betrayed you both a few times?”

Sam snorted. “That only worked because we trusted you. Strangers have no reason to, so Dean’s right.” He rolled his eyes at his brother when the elder hunter dramatically flung a hand over his heart as though shocked Sam agreed with him. “A little more street savvy wouldn’t hurt.”

Castiel grumbled something indistinguishable and ignored the two of them, taking twists and turns through the graveyard, eschewing the trodden path sometimes in favor of ducking between crypts. The brothers struggled to keep up, losing him once or twice around a corner.

“He gets lost it’s your turn to call the pound,” Dean jibed.

By the time they caught up the ex-angel was crouching in front of a crypt that wasn’t particularly imposing, about 4 feet wide and 7 feet tall and made of brick covered with faded plaster. It was similar to nearly every other crypt in the vicinity except for the repeating lines of triple Xes that marked every side of the structure, hundreds of them, and rag tag pile of offerings at the base of the crypt: half melted candles, small bundles of cigarettes, the occasional half smoked cigar, dead flowers, Mardi Gras beads, and a couple of small sealed mason jars with clear liquid inside.

“The Xes are from people who want Marie to grant them a wish, and that’s probably rum in the jars,” Sam piped up, once again the unrequested local tour guide.

“Ok, we came, we saw, we were underwhelmed. You good, Cas?” Dean inquired.

The other man stood without responding, his head cocked to one side, as he fished in his jeans’ pockets. The two brothers watched as he extracted a slim silver chain, which he wound around one hand, with an odd greenish black rock banded to one end which he cradled in his fingers. The ex-angel’s other hand flicked open his pocketknife and before either brother could do anything Castiel made a quick slice across his plan.

“The hell, man?” Dean barked, moving forward to grab his friend’s arm but Sam put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

“I think he’s scrying.” Sam received confirmation when Castiel nodded once, his mouth pinched into a frown as he closed the rock in his bloody grip before he rooted in his pocket again and pulled out single serving sized bottle of rum, clearly snatched from their room’s mini-fridge.

The Winchesters watched in curious silence as the ex-angel tilted up the bottle, swished it in his mouth a few times before opening his fist to forcibly blow the rum out of his mouth in a heavy mist that settled over the now bloody stone and the front of the crypt before them. He quickly dropped the stone to let it swing at the end of the chain and, within a few seconds, the pendulum motion abruptly ceased. To both brothers’ surprise, it didn’t hang straight down but at a noticeable angle left of center, clearly pointing in a specific direction.

“This way,” Castiel indicated, moving quickly, gaze fastened on the chain as he again hurried down one path then another, following it’s strange lead.

After a few minutes of twists and turns through the cemetery the ex-angel drew to a halt by an utterly nondescript mausoleum, the plaster worn away to reveal most of the brick, one corner in the back crumbling from the top down. Castiel quickly handed the silver chain to the nearest brother. Dean held it at arm’s length, the blood, booze and spit covered rock dangling at the end, as the angel walked around the shabby tomb, one hand running over the sides, up and down as he squinted at it.

“I think this is where she’s truly buried. Look, there’s a veve scratched into the mortar here, a voodoo symbol for summoning loa.” Dean squinted and shrugged as his brother nodded at the same time. 

“I think that’s the one for Ayida-Wedo,” the younger Winchester offered, “Cas, there’s probably dozens of those in this cemetery. People put up symbols for voodoo spirits every ten feet in this city.”

Using a fingernail to pick back a bit of loosened plaster, the ex-angel revealed another symbol scratched into the masonry. “But it’s paired with the veve for Ayizan, another power female loa,” Castiel insisted, “rather than with the veve for either of their husbands, Damballah or Loko Atisou. No other priestess would have dared invoke multiple female loa only.”

“He has a good eye. Where did you dig up this one?” a clipped British accent sounded and all three men turned around quickly. Both brother’s hands twitched towards their pieces while Castiel simply simple cocked an inquisitive glance at the dark skinned woman behind them.

“...Tamara?” Sam said softly after a minute, as though shaking loose a very old memory.

Her hair was longer and her expression not nearly as drawn and severe as the last time they’d seen her, but it was definitely the female hunter with whom they fought the Seven Deadly Sins after the hell gate burst open. The hunter’s whose husband drank drain cleaner under the sway of Gluttony and died horribly before her eyes. The hunter who’d stabbed the Wrath while it wore her Isaac’s corpse like cheap suit and, after the Sins were defeated, burned her beloved’s body on a hunter’s pyre with the brothers’ help. 

“Holy shit, talk about a blast from the past,” Dean strode forward, hand coming out automatically and for once it was met, her hand sliding easily into his to give it a firm pump up and down.

“Dean Winchester, you look well for a man who, last I saw, was coming up on the end of his demon deal,” she greeted him with a warmth that had been completely lacking at their last meeting. The British hunter had been furiously cold towards the Winchesters then, blaming them in part, for her husband’s death.

“What can I say? I got better. Mostly thanks to this guy. Cas, c’mere.” The elder Winchester jerked his head at his friend who stepped forward and also shook the woman’s hand, but the ex-angel didn’t let go and stared at her with the sort of intensity he usually favored the Winchesters with.

“You’ve been ridden by loa,” he stated with a hint of curiosity.

“I have indeed and not by accident or misadventure either,” she smiled the tiniest bit. “But you can tell that, can’t you? You know quite a bit or you wouldn’t have that.” She inclined her head at the blood and rum covered rock still swinging at the end of the chain held in Dean’s hand. 

“You’re a priestess, a Gro Mambo if I’m not mistaken. You’ve invited the loa into you.” Castiel replied.

“But you’re a hunter!” Sam objected. The idea of a hunter willingly offering themselves up for possession was completely antithetical to what they did.

“What’s so special about this?” Dean queried, holding up the rock to eye level and squinting at it suspiciously.

“I am both, and believe me, Sam, it helps to have a little help from the other side. Not all spirits are malevolent,” Tamara said easily, not looking at all discomfited to admit to the trio of hunters she was a voodoo priestess of the highest rank. “And, Dean, that’s a bezoar removed from Marie herself upon her death.” Dean made a noise of disgust and held the chain out to Castiel, who took it without a change in expression. 

“Clever man, using that to find her bones,” Tamara said, a hint of admiration in her voice as she looked at the ex-angel appraisingly. 

“When I learned we were coming to New Orleans I reached out to a couple of the hunters in the Mississippi Delta. I thought it might be useful. The Seavuea sisters sent it down express mail to our hotel. I grabbed it this morning when you two were bickering over if the car needed to be moved.”

Sam and Dean traded surprised looks, unaware the ex-angel even knew how to tap into network, much less the loosely organized Southeastern region which had even more lone wolf types than usual.

“By the way, we need to detour through Shreveport on the way back home to return it,” Castiel said off-handedly to the brothers. “And there’s sign of multiple rugarus across the border in Texarkana, so they’d like an assist.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Since when did Castiel A) start talking to other hunters and B) decide their cases? He turned to his brother with a look of confusion mixed with mild outrage, but his dipshit brother apparently wasn’t going to back his play.

“Sounds good, Cas.” Sam said in the bland sort of tone he used when carefully not picking a side. Traitor.

“Boys,” Tamara said in what could only be described as a mom voice. “You’re not here to burn her bones, are you? Marie is not a problem here; if anything she’s a great help. ”

“Well, we won’t _now_ ,” Castiel offered. Sam and Dean both snorted. Leave it to their friend to dig up a salt and burn in the middle of vacation and think nothing of possibly starting a fire in the in the smack middle of one of the biggest tourist attractions in New Orleans.

“Dude, we’re supposed to be on vacation,” Dean complained. “Look, I know you want to be a big boy hunter now, but I thought we all agreed this was down-time. Back me up, Sammy,” he shot his brother a look that clearly said _back me up or else, bitch_.

“Oh, yeah, hey, Cas, tourists go to these cemeteries just to take photos and soak up,” Sam cleared his throat, “Local color...or something. He’s right, no work while we’re here.” He gave Tamara an apologetic look, silently assuring her they wouldn’t light the mausoleum up the moment she walked away.

“Well,if you three are taking a small respite from the usual chaos that follows the Winchesters, why don’t you come to my place on Millaudon in Black Pearl this evening for dinner?” Tamara offered, surprising all three men. “I can’t promise I’ve mastered the cuisine of this city but I’ve been told my etouffee is passable.”

There was no gracious way, nor a reason, to turn her offer down. That evening found the men a few blocks from Loyola and Audubon Park sitting on the wrap-around porch of an amusingly pink painted French Colonial. As they all balanced bowls of shrimp etouffe on their knees Tamara’s three year old daughter, Emmaline, alternately informed them of what she’d done in preschool that day and grilled them about where they were from and did they know she was learning French?

Tamara covered her smile with a hand as Castiel moved from his chair to sit on the porch boards, closer to eye level with her precious child, and addressed nearly all of the nonstop barrage of questions with the sort of focus one rarely sees an adult give a child. Emmaline positively ate it up and, before long, she was nearly perched on his knee and singing Frere Jacques and counting on her fingers in lisping French.

“He’s good with kids. You don’t see that often with hunters,” she remarked to the brothers.

Dean snorted, “That’s because he’s a frigging child himself. Ow!” He rubbed his arm where Sam punched him.

“Yeah,” Sam said smoothly, ignoring the dark look his brother shot him. “Cas isn’t quite as jaded, even though he’s seen some shi- stuff.” He edited himself, mindful of nearby little pitchers with big ears.

If the ex-angel heard them he paid no attention, apparently intent on teaching Emmaline how to count in Mandarin, then German.

With her daughter completely enchanted, and thus distracted, Tamara turned to face the brothers more fully and inhaled slowly, clearly bracing herself.

“After Isaac and...everything that happened,” Sam and Dean both ducked their heads in acknowledgement of their shared, unpleasant past. “Well, to say I didn’t process my grief in a healthy manner would be an understatement. Went on a bit of an bloody spree, then drowned what was left. Hunter’s helper, you know.” The clipped way she spoke the words might have made her sound cold except for the shadow of a smile played at the corner of her mouth, and it wasn’t a bitter one. 

She tipped her glass of tea so sweet it made the Winchester’s teeth ache in the direction of her daughter, who was fumbling over zwei. “Fortunately, an inebriated decision or two in some rather seedy establishments resulted in my saving grace. I had to stop running for her, and here is where we stopped.”

In an uncharacteristically sensitive move, Dean patted her arm and didn’t make any wisecracks. “Looks like you’ve done good for yourself, Tamara. I’m glad.”

“But why New Orleans, if you were going to stop hunting? And why voodoo?” Sam queried, leaning forward like he always did when his inquisitive nature overrode his manners.

“It’s not like I had a plethora of useful skills before hunting. I was a bloody housewife, if you can believe it.” She chuckled and shook her dark head, as though the memory of that long ago life was entirely surreal. “And Isaac loved this city, ghoulies be damned.” She took a sip of her tea and stifled another smile as Emmaline pulled Castiel off the porch to the honeysuckle climbing the fence to show him how to pluck the stamens for nectar. 

“In this town you can make a fair living with the things we know, better than those charlatans in the Quarter shops with their fake gris-gris and dolls. There’s real power flowing through this city; the spooky side is mostly window dressing for the visitors.”

“But voodoo?” Sam pressed.

“Saved my daughter. Anti-vaxxers, now those are the ones who should be hunted,” she said sternly, pointing at one brother then the other as though making sure they weren’t on the wrong side of that topic. “Emmaline was born a bit too early for the medical professions’ taste and caught measles her first year. Too young to get her shots, and it was...quite terrible. I thought I’d lose the last good thing in my world. Again.” She put her drink down, thumb swiping up and down the condensation on the outside of the glass in a nervous gesture. “The doctors had told me to make my peace with the inevitable.” She gave them both a dark look. “We know there’s no peace in laying down in a fight. I knew there were other options, things no proper doctor could do. I took her Mambo Chamani.”

“Yeah, I’ve read about her,” Dean said quietly, flicking his brother on the ear when Sam gave him the _you read??_ look. “The Men of Letters had a file on her dating back to when she was a kid. Visions, prophecies, nothing particularly dark just eerily accurate. They thought about recruiting her when she got older but, well, it was the old white boys club then.” The elder hunter and the woman shared a laughed as Sam rubbed his forehead at the notion his brother had actually done some research in the archive on his own.

“When she called the loa, when I allowed it in, felt it using me like a..a vessel. I knew then that not all the things supernatural are malevolent. The loa put my hands on my daughter.” She reached across to lay a hand on each man’s forearm, squeezing hard, as though she could impart her faith into them by touch alone. “She was healed. Right then. It was an actual miracle.” 

She shook their arms a little bit before sitting back with a loud exhale and one hand fluttered to pat over her heart as though to calm it. “The loa asked for nothing, not my soul, not even my gratitude. I could feel its beneficence, filling me up, pouring into Emmaline.”

Sam opened his mouth but before he could start she waved him off. “I know there’s some tricky loas, a fair few pretty violent ones too. I’m not a fool, and I’m not a dabbler, Sam,.” The younger Winchester had the good grace to look ashamed. “Mambo Chamani took me under her wing when she saw I wanted to do some real good, help people. Isaac and I hunting? We weren’t helping anyone, especially not ourselves; it was all revenge. It killed him, and it nearly killed me.” 

She picked up her glass again just as her daughter and Castiel climbed up the porch steps, Emmaline with a fistful of squashed honeysuckle blossoms to show her mother. “I want to live for something, someone, not die for them.” She turned her attention to her daughter with a beauteous smile. “Oh, darling, I love them.”

The Winchesters and Tamara all chuckled, not unkindly, when Emmaline ran behind Castiel to push his legs from behind to make him step forward and offer his own handful of crushed honeysuckle to their hostess. The ex-angel managed to perform the action with all the stone faced stoicism he had when facing down Raphael in a circle of holy fire. 

The priestess smiled up at him, white teeth flashing in the lowering dusk. “And thank you too, Castiel. I think my daughter distracted you from finishing your dinner, so you should stick around for dessert once I put Emmaline to bed. I’m sure you two don’t mind if I drop him off later.” With that Tamara stood, collected both Sam and Dean’s empty bowls, and turned to walk into the house, her daughter trailing behind her rattling off numbers in broken German.

Dean blinked and turned to his brother. “Did she just…?”

Sam looked nearly equally surprised, if a little bemused. “Yeah, I think she did. Good luck, Cas.” The younger Winchester stood up patted non-existent dust from his jeans.

“Good luck with what?” he asked, a frown turning down the corners of his mouth. 

“Dude, she just invited you for _dessert_.” Sam’s eyebrow shot nearly comically high, except Dean didn’t feel like laughing.

“Yes...and?”

Dean run a hand over his face in exasperation. “You can’t be this thick, Cas, not after everything.” The tasty ettoufee suddenly felt like a rock in the hunter’s gut.

“I have the feeling there’s a reference here I’m not understanding.”

“Cloud seeding, dipshit,” Dean grumbled, standing up quickly. “The horizontal mambo. Beast with two backs.”

“Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo?” Sam helped, making a particularly specific hand gesture that made Castiel’s confused expression immediately clear up only to be immediately replaced by consternation as Sam grabbed Dean by the back of his jacket and practically hauled him backwards off the porch.

“Wait...I don’t think…” the ex-angel said haltingly as he took a step towards them, a hand lifted before it dropped back to his side. He looked over his shoulder to where Tamara and Emmaline had disappeared then back at them with a blank expression. 

“Hey, Sam, maybe we shouldn’t just leave him,” Dean protested nearly tripping as his moose of a brother tugged him towards the car before he managed to turn around and shake his hand off.

“Nuh-uh, no cockblocking Cas to protect his so-called purity or whatever. Get your ass in the car and let him have this.”

Dean didn’t really have a choice but to do as Sam said, not unless he wanted to cause a pretty uncool scene in the middle of this quiet, pleasant little neighborhood over something that actually wasn’t his damn business, the hunter had to remind himself.

Nearly seven hours later, Dean was absolutely not counting nor was he staying up stupidly late stone sober and watching a telenovella on the hotel’s tv with the sound low as Sam snored, the room’ lock clicked and the ex-angel stumbled in. Castiel looked, and smelled, completely wrecked.

Dean whistled low and sarcastically impressed as he stood up and slow clapped for the man, waking his brother who regained consciousness with a muzzy “w’time izzit?”

“Four in the morning, perfect time for the walk of shame,” the elder hunter said, a bit meanly, and the bedraggled, and strangely damp looking, new human swung narrowed eyes to him.

“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Castiel said, his voice unexpectedly ragged, more so than usual. “It was an...extraordinary experience. Now if you’ll excuse me I think I require a shower. And some antibiotic ointment.”

“More like a STD screening,” Dean snarked.

“Dean!” Sam said, the drowsiness gone from his voice. “You’re being a dick.”

“What? I can’t razz our little angel for finally becoming a man? New Orleans, hell of a town for that.” Sam flung a pillow at his brother, which Dean caught and tossed on the sofa which would be Castiel’s bed for the next few hours before the sun rose.

Castiel ignored them both as he dragged his damp t-shirt shirt over his head and hissed.

“You alright there, Cas?” Sam queried as he swung his legs over the bed and rose to approach the man before his nose wrinkled. “Ah, jeez, I thought you weren’t drinking for a while after last night. You reek like a rum mill...hey...what the hell…” 

Dean glanced over from where he was yanked back the mussed covers of the other bed, finally ready to settle in for the night now that their wayward friend was back from his late night shenannigans. “Never had a girl scratch your back up Sammy? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was sharp and his brother turned to the two, eyebrows furrowing when he saw Sam’s hand clenched hard on Castiel’s shoulder as the man turned the ex-angel for inspection. “These aren’t scratches. It’s a veve.”

“...what?” Dean dropped all pretense of getting ready for bed and stalked over to Castiel and pushed to the side former angel’s head roughly, despite the growl of protest. Sure enough, there was a clear, red, and painful looking veve on the side of his neck. 

_Branded. From the inside out._

“If you both done manhandling me, I need to clean up. And no,” he groused as he wrenched out of both the brothers’ grips. “I’m not drunk, nor did I fornicate with Tamara.” Dean couldn’t help himself and snorted. His nerdy angel would use a word like fornicate instead of fuck. Typical.

“You let a loa ride you?!” Sam demanded. “Tamara did this and you...what? You went along with it? What were you thinking, Cas?!”

“That there was something about her inherently trustworthy. I went with my gut. And I was right.” The ex-angel shucked his jeans down in a single motion that was somehow both irritated and pained. He looked utterly exhausted but not hurt, aside from the angry looking brand in standing stark relief against his neck.

The brothers were so surprised by his words they didn’t even bat an eye at the man standing in front of them in just his boxers. “She knew I knew things, more than even a hunter knows, that I was different, and she’s right. So yes, I did, and it was...practically transcendental.” He raised his left arm and under it, near his armpit was a second veve, different from the first, although equally painful looking.

“Is that...is that the veve for Damballah?” Sam’s voice took on a softer edge, a strange awe-struck note to it. “What’s the other one? The one on your-” He lifted a hand, as though he were about to touch the inflamed mark on Castiel’s neck, but thought better of it and let his hand drop.

Castiel straightened, something nearly approaching pride in his the fierce gaze, as he stared back at them, unwavering, unembarrassed. “Legba.” 

Sam backed up a step and Dean, unsure of half of what was going on, looked between the two of them and waited for someone to frigging translate.

Castiel appeared to take a modicum of pity of him and turned to Dean. “I’ve spent the last few hours with Tamara’s coven spitting rum all over me. Repeatedly. Then forced into what some may have called dancing, but I call agonizing contortions, by the two loa who couldn’t decide under whose protection I would fall, so they split the proverbial baby. I think I pulled a muscle. Where, I’m not entirely sure.”

Despite the oddness of what he just said, Dean couldn’t help an amused snort through his nose. It was either laugh or punch Castiel in the side of the head to knock some sense into him. 

“Now,” Castiel said, drawing himself up a bit as though he could regain some of his dignity while standing in front of them in his underwear, smelling like rum and sweat, his hair an unholy riot, “I’m taking a shower then sleeping for at least 6 hours. If either of you wakes me up I will kick you in the balls. Repeatedly.” With that he walked into the bathroom with a slight limp on his left side, and closed the door with a click that sounded, somehow, like punctuation mark to his threat.

The brothers gave each other identical raised eyebrows looks. When Sam opened his mouth Dean held up his hand. “Tomorrow, dude. Or later today. It’s late and this is too much weirdness for me to deal with sober.”

“Yeah...yeah, agreed.” Sam shook his head and tumbled back into his head with a grunt before turning on his side to look at his brother as Dean crammed a pillow behind his head and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Under the protection of loa. That’s some serious shit.”

Dean grunted, determinedly shutting his eyes. “I think it sounds stupid as hell.”

“But Tamara seems alright. She’s not, y'know, possessed. Loa aren’t demons.”

“Seems is the operative word. Cas has always done dumb crap, but he’s not an angel who can bounce back anymore. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Dean’s voice was quiet, ostensibly so the man in the bathroom wouldn’t hear them over the shower, but his tone was pissed.

“Actually, I think he does. If what he says is right, that’s some serious protective juju he’s got on his side.”

“This’ll bite him in the ass, Sam.” Dean rolled onto his side, putting his back to his brother and the bathroom door. “This shit always comes with a price.” The resigned note in his voice shut Sam up for the night.

Dean didn’t move when Castiel came out of the bathroom in clean shorts, but he watched through one cracked lid as the ex-angel slump on the sofa and squeeze a tube of antibiotic ointment onto his fingers and rub them against the back of his neck, then under his arm, groaning quietly as he moved. 

When he finally lay down, appearing to fall asleep almost immediately, one arm was cast over his head while the other rest on his stomach where the sheet draped. The lines in Castiel’s face didn’t soften in slumber but appeared deeper in the flicker coming from the tv they forgot to turn off. If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, the thin blue light washing over him made him look like a corpse.

He didn’t look at all like the angel the hunter knew. Dean wasn’t sure who Castiel was becoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of loa mentioned:
> 
> -Ayiza is Legba's wife. She protects the markets, public places, doors, and barriers, and has a deep knowledge of the intricacies of the spirit world. She is one of the oldest of the loa gods.
> 
> -Ayida is the mother figure. She is the rainbow. Together with her husband Damballah are the unitary forces of human sexuality. She symbol is the serpent, as is her husband's.
> 
> -Damballah is the father figure. He is benevolent, innocent, a loving father. He doesn't communicate well, as though his wisdom were too aloof for us. His symbol is a serpent and he's an aquatic spirit.
> 
> -Legba is the old man who guards the crossroads. He is the origin of life, so he must be saluted each time a service or any other activity with the loa will begin. Legba controls the crossing over from one world to the other. He is the contact between the worlds of spirit and of flesh. His wife is Ayiza.


	12. Forthcoming

I have not forgotten this fic! I simply have been dealing with a lot of things in my life in the last year including switching to a new wonderful job which was amazing, but then my mother passed away suddenly and entirely unexpectedly. Obviously that has made me prioritize my family and put recreational things on hold for a good long while. Things are still hard but me and my family are in therapy to deal with the loss, and I finally feel like I'm getting my feet back under me again. I decided to come back and re-read this fic tonight and it fired up the creative juices once more to tackle all those plot notes that have been sitting in a Google doc folder forever. I'm currently working on a new chapter and it will be up in a week.

Thanks for sticking with me and human!Cas as we try to get back on track, learning and living.


	13. Shook me all night long

The Seavuea sisters were more than glad for the help when the Winchesters and ex-angel rolled through Shreveport. The men barely had time for hurried greetings with the sisters and a quick face-to-face introduction of Castiel before they were rifling through the local hunters’ arsenals for top off of bullets and specialized rugaru gear, i.e. the flammable and explosive kind.

The elder sister Charlotte, a late 40s brunette with a no nonsense but not unkind attitude, shook the Castiel’s hand firmly and accepted the return of Marie Laveau's bezoar with a quick smile. “Hadn’t figured out the right spell for it, good to know it wasn’t taking up space on the mantle for nothing.” She looked over at the brothers, “Glad you’re offering extra hands, even more glad to see ya’ll again.” She patted Dean on the shoulder and the other hand tweaked Sam’s nearly shoulder length hair as she smiled.

“Hey Sam, Dean,” Justine, the younger sister, called as she passed them, heading towards the porch with a rifle on each shoulder. “Don’t get comfy, got some lost hikers and one of them just turned up rugaru chow.”

Within the hour the hunting party was back on the road in a three car caravan heading northwest for Wright Patman Lake near Texarkana. Charlotte lead the way in her massive Dodge SUV while Justine trailed behind, trading second position back and forth with the Impala, occasionally flashing a quick grin at the Winchesters as her Jeep easily kept pace alongside them on the highway. Probably due to the blatantly modified engine, given the roar from under the hood that rivalled classic Chevy’s.

Once they reached the marshland along the southern edge of the lake the Impala was left in a parking lot, to Dean’s chagrin, as the men split up between the sisters’ two off-road vehicles to drive deeper into the preserve.

“Cas and me are riding with Jus,” Dean called to his younger brother as he swung into the passenger seat then tossed a hand out to help Castiel climb over the wheel well and into the back. “Sam can’t pretzel himself into your Barbie car,” he said with a grin at the woman behind the wheel.

“You’re not nearly as slick as you think, Dean,” Justine said through a smile as she waved Sam off to her sister’s SUV, her lips barely moving over her teeth. Castiel’s head cocked to the side as he peered at her odd expression.

Sam looked over his shoulder at his brother and ,for a moment, they held one their silent brotherly conversations involving eyebrows and smirks before Charlotte’s voice sounded, unintelligible from inside her vehicle, and Sam ducked into the SUV and slammed the door behind him.

“Hope springs eternal. C’mon, she’s got to be over her ex by now, right?” Dean put a booted foot up on the dashboard and lifted one hand to hang onto the roll bar as the Jeep trundled down the dirt track, the SUV taking point. “Hang on to something, Cas; it’s going to get bumpy.”

The ex-angel grabbed the side of the Jeep and the roll bar like Dean; within a minute a hard jounce into a pothole made him glad for the warning.

“Just because your idea of getting over someone is getting under someone else doesn’t mean everyone’s that way,” Justine said with a laugh as she expertly navigated her Jeep behind her sister’s car, staying back far enough their vehicle didn’t get splattered with mud when the road turned sloppy.

“Nah, just sick of him making moon eyes at her every time we cross cases,” Dean said airily.

Castiel’s gaze swung from one hunter in the front seat to the other. “You’re attempting to ‘hook-‘!” “Castiel grabbed the roll bar once more as the Jeep bounced, his attempted finger quotes nearly sending him out of his seat, “Hook Sam up….Charlotte is significantly older than his previous partners.”

“He’s blunt,” Justine remarked with humor, brown eyes swinging to catch the former angel’s gaze in the rearview mirror, the corners crinkling as she smirked. The former angel didn’t bother to make any show of contrition, it didn’t sound like she minded his plain speaking.

“To say the least. Cas,” Dean turned halfway in his seat, hand gripping tight to the driver’s headrest to keep stable as they trundled along. “Sammy’s had a crush on her since he first meet her when he was, what? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

Justine nodded as she jerked the wheel, and they went off the dirt track entirely to avoid a downed tree on the path before veering onto it again. “Funniest thing ever, he was so obvious.”

“She’s still a looker but, Cas, back when we first met Charlotte was a total smokeshow.” Dean’s whistled appreciatively, “Older women, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” he reminded his friend. “So Sam…and Charlotte…are…” He let the sentence trail off, entirely uncertain how it should end.

“I still say my sister looks at him and sees a goofy kid,” Justine said confidently.

“Then she needs her eyes checked,” Dean joked, turning back around. “She could do worse and has.”

Castiel remained quiet, mulling over the conversation and acknowledging he had nothing useful to contribute. When the cars stopped after an hour into the increasingly dense thicket he paid closer attention to Sam and, now that he knew what to look for, he was certain the man acted a differently towards the elder Seavuea sister than the younger. He ducked his head when he spoke to Charlotte, leaned in closer, and his face possessed pinker hue under his tan. 

When the older woman turned to say something to the others, Sam’s eyes followed her. More obviously, he practically beamed when she remarked, “I want one,” on the 26.5mm flare launcher mods he’d installed on some extra shotguns in the Winchester’s weapons duffles.

They’d be camping one or more nights on this hunt as the area they had to search any survivors was far past where the cars could venture. As the hunting party started pulling on their packs the ex-angel silently observed the younger Winchester’s deference to the older woman. Sam didn’t behave quite the same way towards other older and more experienced hunters. Castiel couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that differed, so he determined this must be one of those “go with your gut” instances.

As they hiked Castiel watched Charlotte, how she spoke to Sam; he then turned an ear towards Dean and Justine’s quiet friendly banter. There was a change, he determined, to the elder woman’s tone when she addressed the younger Winchester as compared to the slightly rougher edge when she said something to himself, Dean, or her sister. When Sam took point to bushwhack through some scrub, he noted the Charlotte’s gaze lowered and ranged down the tall hunter’s form.

When they took a break to drink some water Justine pulled out her map and compass to consult. The sisters and Sam had their heads together over the map to discuss the location where one body had been discovered and the closer locale where the hikers had initially disappeared. Castiel edged towards Dean.

The hunter swore and slapped the back of his neck, then smeared his palm down his shirt. “Fucking mosquitos. What’s up, man?” He tipped his water bottle back to take a slug.

“I believe Charlotte is harboring similar interest in Sam.” He was not prepared for Dean to choke on his water, but he responded with appropriate smacks to the hunter’s back. After three hard slaps the hunter pushed him off.

“Gah, Cas, knock it off!” Dean fussed before glancing over at his brother, head crooked over the map with the Seavueas. “You think?” Castiel nodded, face serious as usual, and the hunter gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, man, you’re not exactly Mr. Social Expert.”

The look Castiel gave him was sour. “Fine, dismiss my observations. As usual.” He turned on his boot heel and was set to skulk away, but Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the elbow.

“Jesus, you’re pouty. Fine, I believe you.” When that didn’t erase the mulish expression on the man’s face, Dean took a deep breath, clearly calling on his small reserve of patience. “I **_believe_** you, Cas. Okay?” he leaned in on the premise of checking Castiel’s pack. “Not like I ain’t hoping for it myself. But let’s face it, she’d eat him alive.” When his friend cocked his head to the side, a furrow appearing between his brows, the hunter opened his mouth to elaborate but was cut off by the ex-angel.

“I’m aware you don’t mean literally,” Castiel said with his own hint of exasperation. “I’m not completely oblivious to sexual innuendo.”

“Whoa, what’re you two up to over here?” crowed Justine suddenly, causing both men to start minutely and Dean to take a large step back. “That sounded interesting,” she drawled, the tone teasing.

“You’re a riot,” Dean groused and hitched his pack higher on his shoulders as he brushed past her. “C’mon, get the lead out.” The hunter didn’t relish the idea of the feisty Justine chatting up his friend and leading him into a conversational quagmire the hunter would either be forced to extricate Castiel from or find himself dragged down alongside him. He’d known the Seavuea sisters long enough to be sure the one thing they enjoyed more than hunting and and cooking was taking the piss out of others.

Thankfully, once they reached the location where the hikers were last reported the time for chit-chat was over and the hunters got to work. The Seavueas were exceptional trackers, all three men learning quite a bit as they shadowed them with weapons at ready position to provide cover so the women could concentrate on sussing out the faint trail left behind by the missing hikers.

“S’damn hard with rugarus,” Charlotte muttered, using a stick to lift up a slim branch hanging over a deer trail. “Too close to human to tell the difference until it gets ugly.” Justine jerked her chin, and the former angel saw a rusty smear along the leaves. His fingers lifted to touch a green split in the wood.

“Got hair here,” Sam murmured from a few feet away on one knee, eyes scanning in a semicircle before fixing on a bramble. Charlotte’s hand touched lightly on his shoulder, nodding as she lead them in the direction someone was taken, clearly struggling.

When dusk came and went, long after Castiel thought tracking was impossible, the party carried on. Twice the hunters split up, following each sister in split tracks as they continued to find faint markers of people in the woods. 

One was a dead end that brought them back to the other party. The second time they were more fortunate, or less, depending on how one looked at it. The wristwatch, still attached to a torn forearm didn’t survive the attack, but the stopped hands let them know this victim was torn apart before the hunters even entered the preserve. One person they never have a chance of saving, so one less guilty weight. Sort of.

They set up camp at the sisters’ insistence as they pointed out rugarus might be unnatural, but they’d a few limitations given they used to be human, including pretty shit night vision so chances were the nasties were holed up for the night. For now the hunters were best served getting a little shut eye before heading out again. They spelled each other throughout the night in shifts of 2, one parked by the fire with a weapon and the other sitting perimeter watch while everyone else tried to grab a little sleep in their sleeping bags, packs under their heads.

Around 4am Castiel stood up from his watch perch on a log by the fire and stretched. The pop in his back seemed obviously loud, and he glanced apologetically over at Justine who was sitting with her back to a tree, a rifle across her lap, eyes keen and watchful in the dark. Her voice was hushed but he heard it anyways, “I heard what folks’ve been saying. About that meteor shower few months back.”

He ducked his head self-consciously, an automatic response he couldn’t help when that particular topic came up. He moved towards her position, his own rifle slung across his front, eyes drifting over the darkness that encircled their campsite. When he was standing next to her, Justine spoke again, her voice even quieter. “Also heard Sam and Dean were all caught up in whatever that was. Wasn’t a meteor shower.” It wasn’t a question, even so he dipped his head down once more.

”Do I wanna know what it really was?”

His lips thinned to a line as he pressed them together. He knew taking so long to answer did zero to allay concerns, but there was no way to explain it without opening a proverbial can. Releasing metaphorical worms everywhere. 

He finally settled on, “Nothing good. But it’s taken care of.”

The female hunter seemed satisfied with that, or at least she didn’t ask any other questions. They stood in silence for a long while, watching over the others, heads turning on occasion to examine the dark, then it was time for the next watch.

It took the hunters 2 more nights in the woods before they tracked down the rugaru family, which was a bit larger than they thought. By the time they’d cornered the last surviving adult male and its teenage offspring, which was already exhibiting violent signs of a feeder, any hesitation or sympathy Castiel might’ve felt for the creatures and their former, mostly human lives was long gone.

He was badly mosquito bitten, continuously assaulted by his own relentless body odor, and he’d been grazed by buckshot from Dean’s shotgun when he barrelled into one of the monsters trying to drag Justine into the brush and hadn’t ducked fast enough.

As the rotten toothed adult plead in an almost pitiable voice for them to spare its child, Castiel was too tired and utterly done with hunt, and camping, to even flinch when Charlotte blew it away with a phosphorous flare. When the sole remaining rugaru tried to tear a strip off Sam in a last ditch attack the ex-angel’s almost casual underhand toss off a jerry-rigged Molotov to the creature’s back made Dean snort as she too went up in flames, sparing his brother a tetanus shot at the very least.

Despite being dirtier, more exhausted, and definitely smellier than he’d been since he fell human, each time Castiel glanced over at the two survivors they’d rescued he felt rejuvenated in a way he couldn’t describe. The college sophomores were unlikely to leave an urban environment ever again, but they were alive. And currently being firmly instructed by the Seavuea sisters they needed to get checked out for their “bobcat” injuries. 

Once the survivors were dropped off outside the nearest urgent care clinic, the hunters headed straight back to Shreveport where the sisters insisted they spend at least a day or two to rest and get “fed up proper” before hitting the road. 

Dean didn’t bother with more than a “Sorry, baby” before he allowed Castiel and Sam into the Impala, dirty as they all were, a clear indication he was as wiped as they felt. By the time they pulled up to the sisters’ split level ranch in an innocuous suburb their shower order had been determined via a vicious 3 out of 5 round robin of rock-paper-scissor. Dean came out the winner and Castiel was dead last for once, another testament to their collective weariness.

“If there’s no hot water left I’m going to-,” he grumbled as he hefted his bag out of the trunk then let it drop with a groan at the pull in his back. “-do nothing. Ow.” 

“I got it, Cas,” Sam said kindly, hefting the former angel’s duffle along with his, although he was clearly beaten up also. “We need to get that buckshot out before anything else.”

Sitting in a kitchen chair backwards, his chin resting on one forearm, Castiel steadily worked his way through two generous tumblers of pretty good bourbon while Sam picked out shot with tweezers and hemostats. He kept the grumbling to few choice phrases in Enochian and one “Damnit, Sam!” as a particularly aggravating dig zinged a nerve and made his left arm twitch.

To distract himself from the discomfort he watched Charlotte and Justine fuss over each other in their own way. There were a few laughs, one a little too loud to be genuine, and a couple of compliments interspersed with harder toned critiques of each other’s actions. All were delivered while gentle hands fluttered over each other in inspection. Charlotte pushed aside an ice pack Justine tried to press to her bruised cheek to make her hop up on the counter so she could examine the long scratch through her baby sister’s jeans that scored her calf.

Dean reappeared looking much refreshed with damp hair and a clean t-shirt with jeans, patting Sam on his way to the fridge, “Hit the shower, Sammy, I’ll take over.” He handed his brother a beer, which the young Winchester took with him, and passed others to the rest of the banged up kitchen occupants before he pulled the chair back up behind Castiel. Charlotte and Justine exited a few moments later to knock the post-hunt funk off.

Dean’s fingers moving to lightly land on the ex-angel’s skin just below his shoulder blade, touching tentatively for a few moments before the his hand moved with more confidence. He palpated the skin around the remaining half dozen unattended entry points to see if there was any additional shot hiding under the skin. Castiel said nothing but winced once and got a pat to his uninjured shoulder in sympathy. 

Dean worked in silence a few minutes, the only sounds swallows of beers being sucked down quickly by both men, the clink of metal shot landing in the bowl on the table, the rattle of water in the pipes, and the quiet fussing of the sisters from another part of the house.

“Hey, Cas, sorry about that,” Dean said after picking out another pellet.

“Mm, I know,” the former angel offered as he let his empty beer bottle dangle from his fingers a few inches from the floor.

“You know I’m not trigger happy, I didn’t mean to-”

“I know, Dean.”

“But that fucker was going to drag you along with Jus-”

“Dean!”

The hunter’s fingers probing along his shoulder went still.

“I forgive you.” Castiel barely gave the hunter time to sigh in apparent relief before he continued in a chiding tone, “Since apparently that is required in order to head off another one of your pointless bouts of self-flagellation.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my flagellations,” the hunter’s huffed at his back. “What I do in the privacy of my room is my own business.”

“That’s not what it m-”

“Relax, brainiac, I know it doesn’t mean jerking off. You’re not the only one with $2 words in his vocabulary.”

The injured human raised his empty beer bottle in a small salute. “Touche’”

“Smartass,” Dean said with what the ex-angel thought was a note of affection as he resumed his slow torture of digging into Castiel’s skin.

Another few minutes passed before the former celestial spoke again. “This isn’t that bad, comparatively. Raphael kicked my ass much worse.”

“Yeah?” Dean said in a bland tone; a few seconds later Castiel’s conversational topic caught up with the hunter and he inquired, “Hey, I always meant to ask. I’ve seen you guys go at each other’s vessels, sure, but when you were duking it out upstairs without them how’d that work?”

Castiel mulled over his response and bought himself time by waggling his empty at his side. Dean took the hint to get up and grab him a fresh beer. “I expect saying it would be impossible to explain in a way you would understand would result in you jabbing me with the tweezers.”

“Bingo.”

“Then a more apt comparison would be I was a matchstick and Raphael a blowtorch. I, or any angel, could hurt him, but the damage he could return with a similar blow was proportionately much more devastating.”

“Biggest kid on the playground.” The hunter made a quiet noise of disgust. While he felt bad, distantly, for Castiel losing his entire family, even Raphael, he wasn’t exactly sorry the dick was dead.

“Something like that. One time he nearly rent my wings from me.”

The fingers prodding his shoulder paused again then, after a moment, flattened and lightly swept the breadth of Castiel’s back, as though the hunter could see the celestial injury crossing his shoulders. “Damn. Must’ve hurt like a bitch” 

Something zipped down Castiel’s spine in a fizzle, making him flinch, the physical reaction so unexpected. “Y-yes. It was...definitely a bitch.” Castiel noted the goosebumps on his arms and hurriedly tipped his head back to pound the beer.

The hunter behind him cleared his throat and bent back to his task, small talk silenced until one last metallic clink sounded and Dean pronounced him finished. “None of these are big enough to get stitches, but we’ll slap some band-aids on you after you wash up. You want Batman or Superman, kiddo?” Dean’s voice took on the joking note he generally used to put some distance between himself and a conversation that had veered into uncomfortable territory.

Castiel sighed and pushed up from the chair, turning to cross the kitchen and drop his beer bottle in the trash, then used his right arm to reach up and over his left shoulder, neck craned in an attempt to inspect how bad it looked. A work roughened hand landed on his bicep and turned him so he looked out the kitchen door into the hallway where a mirror was on the opposite wall.

His lips pursed in an moue as he examined the red and raw skin, then his eyes flicked to Dean’s reflection and the scowl he saw there was somehow both annoying and endearing at once. 

“I don’t think it looks as bad as it felt. And I feel better already.”

“You’re four drinks in and haven’t eaten anything since the field tack we had for breakfast, course you feel better.” Dean didn’t sound judgemental as he poured himself double of bourbon and waved at hand at the ex-angel. “Go kick Sam out of the shower, and I’ll get to work on some grub for everyone.”

The pleasure of his first hot shower in days could not be overstated. Castiel groaned in a combination of bliss and discomfort as the hot water both soothed his tired muscles and made his many abrasions and small wounds sting. Any thoughts of relaxing or indulging in a long cleansing were cut short when the water started to cool after a few minutes, and his stomach reminded him he was long overdue for some food.

When he exited the bathroom in clean jeans, holding a shirt in his hand as he knew he would need some bandaging on his back, he heard raised voices from the kitchen. Fortunately, the only trouble he found was Justine barking at Dean to sit his ass down because he was, apparently, not making red beans and rice up to her standards. 

“You should know better than to get between Jussie and her stovetop, Dean,” Charlotte chided as she sat next to Sam, stitching up a gash in his forearm. “And you shush, like you could do better,” she aimed at Sam without even looking at him.

“I didn’t say anything!” Sam protested.

“I can hear you thinking it.”

Castiel stood by Dean, holding out the box of gauze and med tape he’d found in bathroom. “You’re psychic?”

“S’an expression, Cas,” Dean said automatically as he twirled a finger for the ex-angel to turn around once more so he could tape some dressing over his shoulder. While he was further tended to, studiously not concentrating on the feel of Dean’s fingers against his back, Castiel watched Charlotte working. Neat little criss-crossed stitches slowly marched up Sam’s forearm, the curved needle sliding into the wound then out again, drawing waxed black thread behind it.

It was fascinating that something so simple, so rudimentary, a basic treatment dating back to nearly pre-history, was still so effective. Put the pieces back together and the body would do the rest, barring irrevocable damage.

Charlotte caught his interested gaze. “You think you can do better?”

“No. I don’t know how to do that.”

“And you been hunting how long?” she asked casually. For some reason Castiel couldn’t deduce Sam’s eyebrow shot towards his hairline, and Dean paused in his work at Castiel’s shoulder.

“He’s been working with us for a few years, so he never had to,” the elder Winchester said smoothly. “You know Sammy’s got the steadiest hands, Lottie,” 

“Mmhmm, I just bet,” the female hunter responded with a quick smile at the younger Winchester before her eyes slid back over to Castiel with a speculative look, but she said nothing else. Although her eyes, and those of her sister, strayed back to the ex-angel once or twice as he rubbed some antibiotic ointment into the still reddened brands on his neck and under one arm before he pulled his shirt on.

Dinner was a quiet affair, everyone too weary to be sociable, although they did all toast a couple of times to saving at least a couple of the hikers and all of them coming out of the whole ordeal relatively unscathed. A last round of drinks in hand the hunters scattered to crash where they could. The sisters returned to their own rooms while Dean kicked back in a recliner. Sam and Castiel were about to rock-paper-scissor for the couch when Dean pointed out Cas needed to sleep on his stomach due to his back injury. Sam huffed but nodded and slunk out to the back porch to try the hammock and pray he didn’t flip it over at some point in the night. 

Hours later, at what time he was uncertain, the ex-angel’s drifted back to consciousness. It took him a minute to determine the reason he'd wakened, then he heard a quiet noise. A creak, a muffled groan. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly in an attempt to better see in the darkened room, and his gaze flickered over the dark outline of Dean sprawled in his recliner in grey pre-dawn light that filtered around the edges of the curtains drawn over the window. Another suss of noise, a thready whisper that ceased suddenly before resuming again a few seconds later. He sat up, head turning his head in an effort to determine the source or its direction, and his eyes fixed on the hall. 

He was halfway to his feet before Dean’s voice made him start. “Leave it, Cas.”

“I heard something.”

“Yeah, we all heard it.” He sighed mightily as though aggravated, but it ended on a soft short chuckle.

“And you’re not concerned.”

“Only that Sam’s gonna be too wiped to take his shift at the wheel later.”

“I don’t understand.” Since Dean didn’t sound concerned the angel sat back down on the sofa, head still cocked in the direction of the noise. A few seconds later another quiet moan sounded, this time higher pitched, then a distinctly feminine voice said something indistinct. Another creak. Then two more in rapid succession.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. Go back to sleep.” Dean’s outline shifted as he re-situated himself in his chair.

“I’m happy for Sam.”

“We’re all delighted, Cas,” the hunter said with a trace of sarcasm, but it wasn’t malicious, more tired than anything. 

The ex-angel sat for another couple of minutes, listening, and thought how pleased Sam must be to finally have the woman for whom he’d secretly nursed romantic affection in his arms at last. He wondered if when they left later today, or perhaps tomorrow, the man would be sad. Or if he would brush off the sexual interlude as easily as Dean usually did his own. He suspected Sam would not; he was not quite as jaded as his brother in many respects and expressed his more sensitive emotions more freely.

“Dude, are you eavesdropping on them?” Dean muttered when he noticed the angel had not laid back down.

“Should I not? I think it’s quite nice, they sound like they're enjoying themselves.”

This time the groan Dean gave was definitely exasperated. “Remember what I told you about watching porn?”

“We don’t talk about it,” he recalled. He idly wondered if Sam would spank Charlotte like the pizza man and the babysitter and just as quickly thought that was probably unlike the younger Winchester. He suspected Charlotte would break the arm of any man who attempted to do so.

“Yeah, and we don’t talk about this. Except to give Sammy shit later. And we definitely don’t listen in. It’s creepy, man! Go to sleep!” the hunter grumbled more forcefully.

Castiel nodded and laid back down, turning his face back into the pillow as he wriggled to get comfortable on his stomach again, one arm dangling off the side of the couch. He was still very tired, his makeshift bed warm and pleasant...but now that he was aware of the noises, and what they meant, he found it difficult to fall asleep. And they increased in both frequency and volume the longer they continued. 

Given the frequent shifts of Dean’s outline on the recliner and the increasingly aggravated sighs and huffs coming from that direction, it was apparent the hunter was unable to go back to sleep either.

After 20 minutes Castiel muttered. “While I’m impressed with their stamina, I’m starting to get annoyed.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment then offered, “There’s a Waffle House down the road. Open 24 hours.”

“I wouldn’t mind waffles.”

Five minutes later, as they pulled out of the Seavuea’s driveway, Castiel flipped a dark brown wallet into Dean’s lap. The elder Winchester picked it up with a smirk. “You took his wallet?”

“For our trouble. He was being inconsiderate with the volume.” It took Dean holding up his fist a good 20 seconds before Castiel remember to bump his against it.


	14. Stickshifts and Safetybelts

The remainder of spring came and went with its usual seasonal uptick in pagan weirdness, demi-gods who had no business being roused from sleep by dumbass dabbling college kids, and water based monsters becoming active once people started jumping into strange lakes and rivers again. And one particularly annoying encounter with a demon attempting to collect early on their deals.

“Castiel, you’re looking particularly scruffy these days. Even for a human.”

The ex-angel gave no response, aside from a tightening in his expression, as a snide Scottish accent oozed from the darkness of the warehouse around them. He currently held the demon against the wall of the warehouse with a forearm over the throat and his angel blade nearly touching its eyeball.

“Frigging great. Just great.” Dean said in irritation. “Crowley, you wanna stop creeping in the shadows like a B-movie villain and tell us why your hellspawn are jumping deals early?”

The portly demon stepped out from behind a stack of crates with his hands raised in a gesture of peace; all three men knew that meant nothing since King could snap his fingers and send them all flying if he wished.

“Doravach here has been a very naughty demon, isn’t that right?” Crowley said with a note of sinister amusement in his voice, clearly pleased his presence caused the demon to go still and pale with fear. “You know me, boys. A deal’s a deal, and I am a demon of honor on the timeframe. So I’ll be taking him back to the pit for a bit of re-training, if you don’t mind.” 

Crowley took a step forward as Sam not-at-all-casually raised the demon killing knife and flicked it between Crowley and the pinned demon. “Nuh-uh, not yet. We’re getting it out of that woman, her husband is worried sick.”

“Sam, please. We both know if you planned to stick it to me you’d buy me dinner first.” A disgusted look crossed both Winchesters’ faces as Crowley brushed past Sam with hardly a second look.

“You exorcise Doravach it’s right back to chasing him round and round. And we’re all a bit too busy for that, don’t you think?” Crowley paused a few feet from Castiel, unimpressed at the dark look the ex-angel leveled him. “No one will miss that old bag. Husband’s having a rather torrid affair, and she’s the neighborhood busybody. Trust me, I’m doing you all a favor. So hand him over, Castiel.”

“Blow me,” he responded with that bedrock scraping voice that caused Dean to snicker and Crowley’s eyebrows to raise as he glanced at the brothers.

“Charming. You two have certainly rubbed on him, haven’t you?” Crowley sighed with fake pity as his flicked his fingers. Sam and Dean flew back several feet to land with painful thuds on the concrete.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii!” Castiel intoned loudly.

“Wait! Wait just a bloody minute!” Crowley shouted at the ex-angel, face flushing scarlet.

Something in the demon’s voice gave the ex-angel pause, although he did swing his angel blade around to point at Crowley instead of the demon gasping under his forearm as thin tendrils of black smoke leaked from the corners of its mouth.

“Give me a reason why I should.”

Crowley settled, now that he had Castiel’s attention, and reached for the inside pocket of his smart blazer, his other hand help up in a conciliatory gesture. He flicked open a square of red silk to reveal a intricately etched glass case the size of his palm and held it out. Castiel’s inquisitive nature got the better of him, and he loosened his grip incrementally to examine the box.

“At the very least put him in here so I don’t have to waste any more resources looking for him.” 

When Doravach squirmed violently to get free Crowley reached out one hand to casually slap it across the face. “Behave. Or your timeout will be exponentially more unpleasant than I’d already planned.” He turned his smug smile on Castiel. “Like it, do you? Tell you what, pop him in here and I’ll let you have one just like it. Something shiny to feather your nest.”

Dean had just gotten to his knees and snatched up the demon killing knife when Castiel glanced over and shook his head at the hunter. Despite his better judgement, he decided to stand down and nodded to Sam as he clambered to his feet.

“That can hold it,” Castiel said, eyes not leaving Crowley’s face.

“This?” The King jostled it on its bed of crimson silk. “Oh yes, remarkable little trinket, one of a set. Hate to break up the pair, but-” The demon’s eyes lashed over Castiel, something appraising in his gaze. “For an old friend, I just might.” Sam scoffed audibly.

“We’re not friends,” the ex-angel retorted.

“Allies once upon a time, then. Trenches, foxholes, and all that.” Crowley managed to sound both magnanimous and patronizing at the same time.

Castiel squinted, unblinking, for what seemed like a much longer time than any human could go without their eyes watering. “Take it from him. I surmise no demon can touch it with their bare hands.” Crowley nodded the smallest bit in silent acquiescence and allowed Sam to pluck it from the silk covering his palm, all the while favoring him with a nasty look. 

“So we have a deal?” Crowley inquired as he slid to stand next to Castiel.

The ex-angel flicked his blade under the King’s chin, and the sharp tip prodded the loose skin there. “I’ll slice your lips off if you even think about it.”

“Kinky.” 

A minute later the box was filled with the inky swirling smoke of the exorcised demon, and Mrs. Mulligan would wake up in a couple of hours with a headache on her front porch. Crowley, completely unaffected by the incantation given the exceptional power being King granted him, said something quietly that made the smoke swirl wildly inside the glass in agitation before he refolded the red silk around it and slipped it back into his pocket. He withdraw another small parcel and pitched it to Castiel underhand. The hunter opened it quickly for inspection.

One calloused finger traced over sigils etched into the glass in a delicate script. “This is in Malachim,” the former angel noted, squinting at the demon. Sam whistled and leaned over to take a better look while Dean rolled his eyes, 125% sure a present from Crowley was a bad idea. “I’ve not seen binding spellwork like this in a very long time.”

“I am an aficionado of the exemplary. You should see my mansion in Glastonbury, tres chic.”

“Pass,” Dan drawled as he leaned over to pick up a dropped gun and holstered it at the small of his back.

”Why give this to me? You’re not altruistic. Or nice.” The Winchesters traded amused looks behind Castiel’s back as Crowley placed one hand over his heart.

“You wound me, Castiel.” The King said in a faux aggrieved voice. Unperturbed by the display, the ex-angel stared stonily back. Crowley attempted to match his gaze but a muscle twitched just below his left eye.

“Would you believe me if I said Sam’s cursed attempt to cure me has left me feeling…” he shuddered visibly as though shaking off something distasteful, “Sympathetic. It’s disgusting.” He glared at the younger Winchester who looked entirely unapologetic.

“Good, hope it sticks,” Sam stated.

“I hope you choke on a hairball,” Crowley snarked in reply. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” Castiel said flatly, not for a moment believing Crowley gave anything to anyone out of the proverbial goodness of his cold black heart. 

“I didn’t think so,” the King said without a hint of embarrassment at his obvious lie. “Fine, it’s in my interests to keep you in one piece. The polite thing is to say ‘thank you, Crowley’. Or haven’t these two flannel wrapped nightmares taught you any manners yet?”

“Why do you care if Cas is safe?” Sam voiced the question that was on all three men’s minds.

The demon’s smirk was incredibly snide. “He’s human now, boys.”

Dean spread his hands in irritation at the obvious remark. “And?”

Crowley rolled his eyes at how obtuse he found the elder hunter. “It means, moron, he has a soul now.”

Sam blinked and turned to look at his friend, as though this thought hadn’t occurred to him, then his expression cleared in understanding. “You think you can make a deal with him one day.”

The ex-angel’s face twisted in revulsion, and Dean’s hand holding the demon killing knife twitched.

“Wouldn’t dream of wasting my breath. If I breathed. I know a lost cause when I see one. No, gigantor, but one day our dear plucked chicken here is going to die. I’d prefer to keep him out of my house for as long as possible.”

Dean looked outraged at the idea. “Screw you, Crowley, Cas ain’t dying anytime soon and when he does he’s not going to hell!” he barked vehemently.

Castiel laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and held him back when Dean advanced a step on the King of Hell. “Dean, stop. He’s not wrong.” The look the elder hunter turned on him was just a furious as the one he levelled at the demon.

“But I’d think,” Castiel’s’ gaze slid back to Crowley, his expression implacable as though he’d considered this possibility long ago and resigned himself to it, “You’d leap at the chance to have me on your rack.”

“Darling,” Crowley said silkily as his hands drifted up to adjust his lapels, “We all know how fond you are of coups. I’m more concerned you’d try to take my throne.”

The movement was so quick neither Winchester saw Castiel’s left hand move. The thrown angelic blade embedded itself deep in the wall a split second after sailing through the spot Crowley had occupied a moment before.

Neither brother said anything as their friend pulled his blade from where it was buried a good 5 inches into the mortar.

“He’s faster than I remember.”

“Or you’re slower. Ow!” Dean rubbed his shoulder where his brother punched him. “Whatever, you got your shiny thing, Cas. Demons are gone. Great, s’happy hour.” He didn’t sound happy though, and the downturn of Sam’s mouth indicated his mood was similar.

Posted up at a table in the local dive bar of Pocatello, Idaho it didn’t take long, only two shots and a beer, before conversation inevitably veered back to the topic on the Winchesters’ minds.

“Cas, you can't seriously believe you’re going to hell,” Sam said gently, his tone laced with mild rebuke.

He levelled both brothers with a flat look. “You’re either naive or purposefully delusional if you think otherwise.”

“C’mon, man, stop with the martyrdom complex,” Dean said brusquely. “So you’ve screwed up, we’ve all screwed up. And you seem pretty damn sure me and Sammy are gonna being pushing through the pearly gates one day.”

“Because you’ve-” the ex-angel started. 

“Made demon deals,” Dean interrupted hooking a thumb at himself. “Jump started the Apocalypse.” He pointed a finger at his brother..

Sam simply shrugged, even smiled a little as he raised his beer, because it wasn’t like he could argue with that.

“That’s not-” Castiel protested.

“Out of the 10 commandments we’ve broken nearly all of them. Killing, coveting, stealing, adultery.” He winked on the last one. “Fuck the Sabbath, and pretty sure there’s not a number high enough for the times we’ve cursed your dad’s name.”

“You had good reasons,” Castiel demurred, although it sounded rather lame even to his ears.

Sam rested a hand briefly on Castiel’s forearm. “So did you. Even with Purgatory, you were trying to stop Raphael from re-starting what we, all of us, stopped. You’ve always had good intentions, Cas.”

“We know what road is paved with those,” he reminded his friend. Dean’s face flushed and it was clear this was one of those conversations that could easily devolve into a massive argument that would drag in all their past misdeeds and end the night with on a terrible note. 

For once Castiel decided being right wasn’t all that important at the moment, so he attempted diplomacy. It might have been for the first time in his life. “It’s flattering you both feel so strongly about this. Your concern for my salvation…it means a great deal to me.”

That was obviously not what either brother expected to him say and it shocked them into silence. Albeit briefly. 

A sliver of a smile crossed Dean’s face before he took a sip of his beer then waved to the waitress for another round. “Nice deflection, Cas.” Sam nodded.

The ex-angel shrugged, unbothered to have been caught, and rubbed a finger through the ring of condensation his glass left on the tabletop. “It’s still true. But I am in no hurry to test either of our theories, so-” he patted his pocket where the glass case resided, “I’ll take advantage of any object, spell, or skill that helps me forestall the inevitable.”

The three hunters drank to that. It was as good a toast as any of them could think of.

Before sacking out in their hotel room, Dean mulled over Castiel’s resolution. That he was willing to try just about anything to improve his hunting, prolong his life, postpone the eventual judgement. The hunter sighed as he spit out his toothpaste; he felt a twinge of guilt because was falling down on his end of their agreement. There was still a lot Castiel needed to learn, certain things the hunter had deliberately put off for reasons he’d studiously ignored. He determined to fix that.

The following Saturday found Castiel learning how to change a tire and the oil in one of of the classic cars in the bunker garage. Dean absolutely refused to allow anyone to perform maintenance on Impala except himself, but he did allow the ex-angel to lean over the engine block at his side as he discussed how to change spark plugs and what a distributor was for.

Castiel listened with interest but, after most of the morning had passed, he had to ask, “Is any of this absolutely necessary to know before I actually drive a car?”

“No,” admitted Sam from where he was capping an empty bottle of fresh oil he’d fed into the Chevy.

“Yes!” Dean insisted, swatting his brother with a greasy rag. “Look, Cas, I’m not asking you to rebuild an engine from the ground up.”

“Even I don’t know how to do that,” the younger Winchester quipped.

“Yeah, you’re fulla useless nerd stuff instead.”

“And you’re full of shit, Dean,” the ex-angel said quickly, breaking up the sniping before it turned into a full-on insult contest. It worked as Dean blinked at him a few times before he slid the dipstick back into the oil tank. 

“Ok, fine, no it’s not ‘absolutely necessary’”, he mimicked Castiel, finger quotes and all, ”But it’s important to know some basic maintenance, so when you get a flat or something you know what to do. And the right gas to put in a car, **_Sam_**.”

“One time, Dean! Fifteen years ago!”

“There’s different kinds of gas,” Castiel said, mostly to himself, and ignored the groan from the older Winchester. “Fine. I’ll learn this stuff, but don’t drag this out simply to procrastinate on my driving lesson.”

“Unclench, man, jeez. Sammy’s taking you out this afternoon.” Dean huffed and popped the cap off the radiator to check the fluid level.

Castiel’s face swung from his friend to Sam and back again, a finger raising in inquiry.

“ ** _We_** decided,” Sam jumped in quickly, heading off the obvious question, “That I should teach you.” The frown on Dean’s face didn’t quite jibe with his brother’s words, but he didn’t argue. “Y’know, a little lower stress lesson.”

“You are more patient, Sam,” Castiel agreed. When Dean scowled Castiel rolled his eyes at him, which made Sam snicker.

Castiel saw the logic in the decision; Dean was much more prone to outbursts when frustrated and cutting sarcasm when Castiel didn’t meet his expectations quickly enough. Sam, while a tad more patronizing, was a less antagonistic instructor in many things. And driving was a very important skill Castiel not only needed to master but very much desired to perfect as quickly as he could. 

He was frustrated it had taken this long for the Winchesters to finally agree it was time, but he realized early on that pushing on this particular issue was sure to result in further delay. 

Castiel had developed the notion, and had yet to be disabused of it by either brother’s actions, that Dean and, to a lesser degree, Sam were not enthusiastic about Castiel having the ability to leave. He couldn’t exactly blame them, not with his history of vanishing on them at the worst possible times and for reasons they rarely agree with. 

But this wasn’t the same; he craved additional independence, if only so he could occasionally leave the bunker to run an errand without imposing on the men for a ride or walking to the main road to wait for the interminably slow bus. He also wished to do some things without either Winchester tagging along. A few things in particular he’d very much like to do alone.

Two hours later, still keeping hands at 10 and 2 o’clock on the wheel he swung his head over to glare at Sam in the passenger seat of the 1957 green Thunderbird they’d taken from the garage for the driving lesson. 

“If you remind me to check my mirrors one more time I’m going to kick your ass, Sam,” he promised solemnly. At this point in his training such a feat was possible, if not consistently executed. 

Castiel twisted his torso, dumped his right arm along the top of the bench seat, and backed out of the parking space at the grocery store. He did another circuit of the parking lot before easing out on the street to head towards what passed for downtown Lebanon. 

The younger Winchester chuckled. “Alright, you’re doing fine anyway.” That was an understatement. Castiel picked up not only driving, but using the manual transmission, in scarily short time. 

Sam had demonstrated, as he slowly drove along the roads that encircled Lebanon and dipped in and out of mostly empty parking lots, how to hard to depress the gas, the brake, and how to shift, backing up, three point turns, and around a dozen other techniques including balancing the clutch against the gas to move from a stop on an incline, and downshifting to reduce speed.

Castiel had watched, mostly silent, his face the very picture of intense concentration. Occasionally he asked for a clarification and waited until Sam apparently exhausted his verbal lesson. When he slid behind the wheel the younger Winchester not at all discretely fastened his lap belt and put one hand on the dashboard, ready for the jerky stops and transmission grinding that was a rite of passage for all new drivers stuck with a stick shift.

Most of which did not happen. Castiel did grind the gears twice between first and second but almost immediately fixed the issue after scowling at the steering wheel, as though mentally willing the car to behave. Within the hour he'd practically mastered easily shifting through the gears relevant to speed, his accelerations were smooth if a bit slow, and his stops lacked the jerky stomps Sam himself had performed many times when he was first learning.

Aside from needing to be reminded what all the street signs meant, especially the stop sign and traffic light, and the necessity of using the indicator Castiel was, surprisingly, a natural at driving. 

“Maybe I should’ve let Dean teach you. I don’t think he’d have much to bitch about, Cas.” Sam offered as a joking compliment.

Castiel squinted, lips pursed as he scanned side to side before bumping over railroad tracks then put on his turn signal as he executed a sedate left turn.“I’m sure he would have found something to complain about, then blood would need to be cleaned from the seats.”

“I really can’t tell if you’re joking or being serious these days.”

“I strive to be an enigma.” The ghost of a smile ticked up the corner of his mouth and his passenger outright laughed.

“Wanna try parallel parking again?” Sam pointed up ahead as they eased down Main St. where plenty of street parking was available. 

He performed the maneuver slowly, staring out the back window then into his mirrors before he adjusted the wheel to the right to swing backwards into the spot, then left to straighten up as he pulled forward again. The look he gave Sam once he put the car in park was subtly smug.

Sam made a show of giving him a polite golf clap before he slid of the car to check the distance between the bumpers and the cars on either side of the Ford. It was perfectly centered, literally. He was pretty sure if he got out a measuring tape it would line up within a fraction of an inch. It was odd little things like that that reminded Sam his friend might be a human now but he wasn’t at all an average guy.

“I have excellent hand eye coordination and depth perception. And spatial acuity.” Castiel didn't brag, although that statement came close, and he looked unreasonably proud of his parking job.

“Probably came in handy for flying. Like how you managed to land in the back of the Impala while it was moving, right?” Sam questioned as he turned from the car to head down the street on their errand to the hardware store.

“Not even remotely similar,” Castiel responded, spinning the keys on his index finger once then pocketing them, a gesture the younger Winchester realized was very much like what he sometimes did. “Celestial transport involved infinitely more complex calculations than pressing a gas pedal and looking both ways.” Although this was said the same rough, semi-monotone many of Castiel’s pronouncements were delivered Sam caught a hint of wistfulness anyway. Only because he knew the man well.

When the door from the garage to the bunker groaned on its steel hinges around 7pm Dean’s head snapped up and he looked expectantly at the stairs. He absolutely had not been drumming his fingers on the polished surface of the library table while idly browsing the internet. No way had he been paying attention to the time, even though it was right there in the bottom corner of the screen. That gnawed pen cap in his teeth had nothing to do with the fact no damn driving lesson should take so long.

Castiel emerged ahead of Sam, holding several bags from a fast food restaurant, and he paused when he saw Dean sitting directly in the line of sight of the stairwell. “You were waiting. Were you concerned?” 

It was hard to tell if he was pleased or annoyed at the idea; the ex-angel tended to waffle between the two frequently. While he resented being treated as though he were inept, he had to admit he still was in some areas. He knew Dean’s concern stemmed from their friendship, his rough affection for Castiel, but it was often suffocating and made the ex-angel desire to buck under the weight of it.

“Pfft, no,” Dean dismissed, spitting out the pen cap into his hand. “For the car, maybe. That Thunderbird is a gem, if you wrecked it-”

“I didn’t. And you’re welcome." Castiel plopped a paper bag nearly transparent with grease on the table in front of the hunter.

“Thanks,” Dean shot his friend a brief smile as he dug through the bag and made a happy noise when he pulled out a steak and cheese, extra onions. “Ooooh, baby.”

“You wanna be alone with that sandwich?” Sam joked as pulled up a chair and dumped the other bags. Dean’s face took on an expression of only semi-fake horror as Castiel opened his meal and it was a salad, albeit one with some meat on it. Looked like chicken maybe. 

But still. 

Rabbit food.

It took a minute before the ex-angel noticed, and then could not ignore, Dean’s judgemental expression. 

“...Shut up. I got heartburn last time.” He managed to make that sound both defensive and embarrassed. Dean raised his hands in silent acquiescence, one holding his sandwich, then he proceeded to eat with a few unnecessary noises of enjoyment, rubbing it in that he had a cast iron stomach. 

For the next week Dean felt a great swell of sympathy for what John Winchester went through when Dean first started driving. Every time anyone mentioned going out Castiel perked up and offered to drive or simply snagged the keys to the Ford before either brother could. When lacking an actual reason to leave the bunker Castiel resorted to opening the fridge or a kitchen cupboard to state they were running low on one thing or another and he should pop out to the store. 

Dean wasn’t about to let him go off driving by himself, not yet, but he was getting tired of being dragged out on every flimsy excuse. Sitting in the passenger seat was also driving him bugshit. He didn’t have anything to complain about Castiel’s driving, not really. 

The ex-angel drove confidently, conscientiously, always came to a complete stop and turned on his indicator well in advance of a turn. He didn’t let the tank get to more than half empty before he refilled it, and he kept the Ford very clean. Sam caught him polishing the chrome one afternoon. 

But

he

was

so 

goddamn

slow!

Not that Castiel kept pace with Sunday drivers, but Dean was going to absolutely lose his mind if the ex-angel didn’t step on the fricking gas to pass a car once in awhile or, at the very least, eek above the highway speed when they were on the actual highway!

After yet another frustratingly pokey trip to check their post office box, two new incredibly convincing fake driver’s licenses had arrived from Charlie, Dean tasted blood in his mouth where’d he’d bitten his cheek to keep from screaming. 

He was also sick of riding around in the Thunderbird. Sure it was cherry, but it wasn’t his car, it was so old school it verged on being an old fart car, and it didn’t have a tape deck, so they had to listen to the radio. Castiel had taken the “driver picks the music” creed to heart and seemed to delight in changing the station randomly to sample a variety of musical genres as he drove. When Dean and Sam both started to bitch about the Top 40 station, Castiel promptly told them both to shut their cake holes. Dean noticed the bastard didn’t even bother to pretend he didn’t enjoy saying that.

They’d created a monster. One that was taking the longest damned route home. Again. At geriatric speed.

“Cas!” Dean finally groaned as the ex-angel merged onto the interstate at an entirely responsible speed. “You’re killing me, man!”

“Pardon?” He glanced over at Dean before looking away and over his left shoulder to move over a lane, fastidiously checking his blind spot.

“Get the lead out! You drive like my grandma!”

“I wasn’t aware you knew how your grandmother drove. Didn’t she di-”

“Not the point! Go faster!”

“Dean, I’m observing the speed limit.”

Dean dragged his hand down his face. Lucifer didn't manage to kill him but this just might. “Cas, driving isn’t just getting from point A to point B. This!” He pointed out the driver’s side window at a minivan overtaking them on the left. “Not okay!”

They bickered all the way back to the bunker and into the garage; Dean slammed the passenger door entirely too hard as he got out.

“We got passed by the Brady Bunch in a 55!” Dean stormed, earning a completely nonplussed look from Castiel which clearly meant he didn’t get the reference.

“I was obeying every traffic law, Dean. What is your problem?” Castiel snapped, shutting his car door more carefully even though he was pissed. “Are you ever going to be satisfied with anything I do?! Ever?!” He huffed and turned his head to the side, staring stonily across the garage. A muscle worked in his jaw as he clearly struggled to keep his emotions in check.

Dean paused, staring at him over the hood of the car. The ex-angel’s tone wasn’t just mad; it was hurt. Whoa.

A pissy retort died on the hunter’s tongue; he didn’t mean to be such a dick to Cas, he really didn’t. But it was his default reaction whenever they disagreed. Push back harder and try to wrangle Castiel into line. 

But this wasn’t hunting, this wasn’t life or death, it was just driving and Castiel didn’t understand what Dean was getting at. Driving wasn’t simply transportation, it was fun. On a gorgeous day or a balmy night driving with the windows down made Dean feel awesome. Free for a little while. Like as long as he was behind the wheel and had enough gas the road in front of him was wide open and full of possibilities. 

Yeah, Castiel didn’t get that at all. How could he? Who’d bothered to explain it to him?

“...wait right here.” The hunter turned and jogged across the garage.

“Dean, wha-?” Castiel started.

“Seriously, Cas, just wait!” He paused at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the living quarters. “Please, okay? I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a response he headed for his room, snagged his keys from his bedside table, and was back in the garage within 2 minutes. Castiel was still standing in the same spot, a look of confusion on his face. 

The hunter walked over to his baby and rounded to the passenger side then held up his keys and jangled them. The ex-angel’s eyes widened. 

“If I’m gonna let you do this, you gotta promise me one thing, Cas. I mean it.”

“Of course,” Castiel said quickly and damn if he didn’t look earnest as hell.

“Say it.”

“I promise, Dean. Anything.” Now he looked eager, practically itching to snatch the keys.

“You ain’t allowed to go under 10 miles over the speed limit.”

The rough bark of laughter than greeted that was nearly as sweet to Dean’s ears as the intro to Black Dog, the opening chords blasting out the windows as they rolled out of the garage.


	15. The Road Goes on Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a little more Dean POV.
> 
> And I promise the slow burn is starting to heat up, so if you've stuck with me this long and are like "Hey, where's the bow-chika-wow?" you'll see a bit in the next few chapters, I've made you wait long enough!

High summer in Kansas was muggy and unceasingly hot. The cicadas were deafening. Any running had to be done before the sun rose or Castiel risked heat prostration. All their TV shows were in re-run.

The lack of earth shattering disasters had Sam upbeat and Dean tense as he waited for a shoe, somewhere, to drop. Castiel was unswayed in either direction, adopting a somewhat Zen-like “what will be will be attitude” that annoyed Dean for a reason he couldn’t name.

The hunters received a respite from the monotony of peace every week or so with a request for assistance, either over the phone or the occasional 1-2 night jaunt to an adjacent state to lend hands. All and all a relatively quiet period in their lives, and it was slowly driving Dean buggy. He didn't trust them getting a bit of peace and quiet. Something had to give.

July 4th was the perfect break in the stifling routine, an excuse to get out of the bunker despite the lure of the coolness of the concrete enclosure, and blow something up purely for fun. They shot off a huge box of illegal fireworks much to Castiel’s amusement, although he refused to hold one in his hand since he could no longer regrow digits or heal theirs, he repeatedly pointed out. He did not appreciate it when the brothers shot Roman candles at each other and nearly hit him. Whether it was by accident or on purpose the Winchesters would take to their graves. 

Sam had the brilliant idea to catch a Royals baseball game. Although the team was technically in Missouri it was barely over the border with Kansas; therefore it counted as their local team. Dean informed Castiel they were sure as hell going to root for them, especially over the damn Red Sox.

The game went exactly as expected. The Royals stunk it up, and Castiel asked a lot of questions about the game but got the jist quickly and invariably predicted a few plays based off his uncanny affinity for geometry and being a preternatural know-it-all. They paid too much for watered down lite beer but still managed to get a little sloshed thanks to the flasks they smuggled in, and they didn’t get back on the road to Lebanon until after midnight after sobering up. No one was in a hurry, it was an easy straight run back home, they had nowhere to be the following day, and they were all in fair moods despite the 9-2 loss to the Sox. 

Sam sprawled as much as his long legs allowed across the back seat as Castiel drove, and Dean flipped through his tapes. It was nice. Uncomplicated. Easy for once. And that was exactly why something itched under Dean’s skin. Things seemed to be if not going their way, for once, then at least not actively working to fuck them over. He didn’t trust it. 

He knew fate; she was a hot-librarian bitch, and he didn’t trust her one bit.

For the moment, however, it was a wide open road under a cloudless sky in the middle of the Midwest flats, one rolling field after another, the two lane country highway unwinding under the wheels of the Impala in smooth undulations. “Smoke on the Water” drifted from the speakers, barely rising over the sound of the wind past the open windows.

Dean checked a road sign and his mental map of the area had him reaching over to tap Castiel’s arm to get his attention. “Hey, up here in 2 miles take a left on Route 15.”

Venturing off 15 onto a smaller paved road and eventually a not too bumpy gravel road, the elder hunter pointed to the northeast. “Park over there.”

Castiel was about to ask why they were seemingly in the middle of nowhere for no discernible reason when Dean slid out of the passenger seat and walked around to lean against the front fender of the Chevy. He crooked a finger in a clear come on gesture, so the ex-angel killed the engine but left the radio on, sparing a look into the backseat to note Sam was sound asleep.

“What are we-?” He stopped when Dean simply pointed his finger straight up then put his hands behind him to rest on the warm hood of his baby.

“Oh.” Castiel’s eyes skated up to fix on the stars. More of them than human eyes usually see, given how close most lived to lit up towns and cities. The still pond before them reflected the sky back, mirroring the night. If the ex-angel didn’t look too hard he could almost fool himself into thinking he could put a foot out and walk through the star field. 

They were quiet for a while, the only sound the crickets in the high grass, the rustle of wind and the low plaintive vocals of Ian Gillan. 

“Is...is there a purpose to this, Dean?”

He received Dean’s usual ineloquent shrug. “Dunno, does everything gotta have a purpose?” The hunter wished he could take back the rhetorical question the moment it left his lips. To his surprise, however, Castiel didn’t immediately launch into a philosophical treatise.

The ex-angel’s head canted to the side as he mulled that over. “Perhaps not,” he conceded and turned his face skyward, leaning against the bumper to mirror Dean, arms crossed over his chest.

While Dean could easily sit outside like this with his brother for hours without talking it wasn’t quite the same with Castiel. It wasn’t that the silence was uncomfortable, it wasn’t. But it felt somehow heavy, like it took up space that should be occupied by something else. A conversation they couldn’t seem to have.

“Probably not all that interesting. You’ve seem them up close or something,” Dean remarked quietly. 

“Actually it is. I don’t believe I ever bothered to do this. Appreciate the stars simply for being.” Castiel's eyes flicked heavenward again. “The first sentient lifeforms did this, looked up, wondered what they were, made up stories to explain them. Even then man wanted to know.”

“Know what?”

“Why. What does it all mean. What’s the purpose.” 

Dean groaned softly; there it was, the impending philosophy lesson. 

Castiel spared him a little smile. “Relax, no existential rant forthcoming. I’ll stick with admitting they’re rather pretty.”

“Appreciate it. It’s a little late for a lecture, professor.”

Castiel smacked the back of his hand against Dean’s arm in a friendly swat before he moved to sit on the edge of the hood, boots resting on Baby’s bumper and his friend soon did the same. 

“Bet you know the names of all the constellations.”

“Probably.”

“Alright, that one.” Dean’s finger sketched up in a zigzag pattern.

“天市左垣.”

“I call bullshit.”

“You didn’t say it had to be in English.”

“Cheater.” He nudged Castiel in the side.

“I like to think of it as exploiting loopholes.”

“Tomayto, tomahto.”

“That’s the same fruit.” 

The hunter chuckled quietly, shaking his head before looking up again. Maybe it was okay, being easy for once, hanging out with Castiel, no one’s life on the line. Just be around him and not always worrying he was going to up and vanish like a puff of smoke. Talk about dumb stuff that didn’t serve any purpose except to keep them talking.

“You can’t see it right now, but,” Castiel lifted his left hand and point across them, his arm crossing Dean’s line of sight. “With the telescope in the bunker, you’d be able. The Veil nebula. It’s a personal favorite.”

“Why, you make it or something?” Dean joked.

“No. Gabriel did.”

“.........” 

What was he supposed to say to that? It was stuff like this, when Castiel said so casually something like “Oh yeah my annoying candy snacking prank playing d-bag brother made a fucking nebula” that Dean got knocked off center. 

Over the months it had become easier to look at Castiel and see just a guy. A dude who bitched about black coffee and cold showers. Almost forget he used to be something different. Alien. Mind-shatteringly huge. Almost, but not quite. 

“He wasn’t supposed to of course. The cosmos was just as it was, as God designed. Allegedly. But you know him. Sort of. Couldn’t resist-” Castiel tried to snap and failed, a human skill he’d yet to master. “-he had to tweak it a little.” 

The corner of his mouth tipped up at the memory.

“He did that quite a bit. He love…loved creation, the act, the result. All the funny little variations life took on. If I had to guess I’d blame the platypus on him.” 

Dean stared, slightly open mouthed, at Castiel’s profile as he spoke. This was the first time he’d heard Castiel speak of an angel, any angel, with fondness. And a touch of bitterness. The way you do about family. 

“Michael, of course, wasn’t impressed and tried to get him to put the Veil away, but Gabriel was always willful. No surprise there. They had …” A brittle smile creased his lips before skirting away. “It was a boisterous disagreement.” Castiel continued to look up, as though he wasn’t telling Dean a couple of secrets about creation that would absolutely devastate astrophysicists. Neil deGrasse Tyson would cry.

“In the end it stayed, clearly. I think Michael decided it wasn’t that big a deal in the grand scheme of things, so he let Gabriel have his metaphorical toys.” He blinked a few times, the reflected stars in his eyes brighter for a moment.

Dean hesitated, uncertain what he should do in the moment, before he moved his hand to rest on Castiel’s shoulder. “Never heard you talk about them like that, Cas.”

His friend nodded, the motion a little jerky but his face remained resolutely on the stars.

“It wasn’t always the Apocalypse is nigh or the Crusades or smiting cities off the map.” His adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “They were my brothers. All of them. Even the jerks.” The ex-angel inhaled then blew it out harshly, and his eyes squeezed shut. Creases formed at the edges and tracked across his temples. Dean was a little alarmed. If he didn’t know better he’d think Castiel was almost- ah crap.

His hand slid across his friend’s back to curl over Castiel’s opposite shoulder. “Hey, hey, man, it’s alright. I know it’s, uh, tough. Family is. Know from experience.”

Castiel nodded again, smaller this time, and his voice was low but it didn’t waver. “Anna she...was fascinated by humanity’s personal heavens. Her favorite was an eternal loop of a father and son in what used to be called Siam.” He didn’t open his eyes, his gaze turned inward. 

“They were night fishing. It was such a small thing, but it made them so happy. It didn’t matter they were poor, that they knew nothing of the world outside their river valley. All that man wanted or needed was right there in a little boy who had his eyes.” 

Castiel’s knee bounced once, twice, then stilled when the bumper creaked. “Anna adored that about heaven. What man made of it. To her it was the best part.” Something in his gravelly voice made Dean’s stomach lurch. 

“Cas-”

The ex-angel carried on, as though he couldn’t hear him. “How many ways the human heart crafted their perfect ever-afters. Some were so extravagant, others small and humble, but each gave their souls such peace.” Castiel’s hand dragged down his face. Dean firmed the arm over his shoulder and leaned into him.

“Cas, you don’t have to-”

“Balthazar,” Castiel cut him off and that time there was a new, unsettling husk in his voice. “He wasn’t always so self-absorbed. That’s why he hid the weapons. He didn’t want the war, he couldn’t stand to see us tearing at each other.” Castiels’ next inhale was choppy. “He was clever...and c-creative...he was good. I used to fly with him and...we used to be...it was so...Dean...I...damnit I-” 

The hunter had never heard anything like this in Castiel’s voice, the pain leaking through. When things had been tough, both before and after the fall, Dean had always seen Castiel as steadfast. Furious. Stubborn. Sometimes pig-headed. Even when Heaven was ripping itself apart and trying to drag the world down with it, Castiel never showed the personal toll it took on him. No matter how bad it got, he was a rock. Disaster and death could crash against him and he came back time and again, immoveable. 

Now it sounded like he was finally sinking under the weight of all his mistakes.

If it was this hard for Dean to hear, Castiel’s sorrow, his regret, he couldn’t even hazard a guess how agonizing it was for his friend to finally give voice to all of it. To remember his garrison, his brothers, his family, and how it was all gone. Broken and wrecked, and he did it all. 

Dean was intimately familiar with self-blame, whether or not it was justifiably laid at his feet. 

Sometimes it doesn’t help at all for someone to say it ain’t so. It’s not your fault. You were tricked. You can’t do this to yourself. Sometimes you have to feel the pain, every ounce of it. No matter how much it churns up your gut and hollows you out. No matter how much your previously sure moral ground turns to quicksand, you have to bear it.

“I know, Cas. Shit, I know,” the hunter replied, his own head lowering as he looked down at the dusty ground between his feet, Castiel’s boots beside his. He could at least give Castiel that much privacy, even if he plainly heard the ex-angel’s ragged breathing, felt his back hitching every once in awhile under the arm wrapped around him. 

Dean wasn’t going to judge, hell if he could. He’d done more than his fair share of damage and destruction. He broke the first fucking seal, and it didn’t matter he hadn’t known it at the time, he’d done it anyway. He’d made that choice, put another soul on the rack to take his place. He’d torn a bloody wild trail through Purgatory and enjoyed the savagery half the time. He’d sent his own brothers into the Cage and let Hell stay open. Nearly his whole family was dead and, one way or another and, no matter what anyone said, Dean blamed himself for it too. 

Sometimes shit piled up. Sometimes Dean saw it coming from a long ways off and could prepare himself, go to his room, go for a drive, grab his gun and go shoot some cans off a fence or take a crowbar to something. 

Other times it snuck up on him and forced its way to the surface. He’d have to let it out, by that point it was beyond his ability to control, and he’d find himself covering his face and failing to stifle the noises clawing out of his throat.

Sam never gave him an ounce of shit for losing his composure, not once. Any man would crack sometimes if he’d experienced a fraction of the crap Dean had. As much as Dean razzed Castiel about shit he wasn’t about to bust his chops for this. If he thought about it, he was amazed Castiel had held out this long.

“Believe me, Cas, I know.” When Castiel leaned into him and his head landed heavily on Dean’s shoulder, the hunter didn’t flinch or pull away. He let him be and curled his arm around his neck, hand clumsily landing on his hair. He kept saying nonsensical things, words that didn’t make a damn bit a difference except to let his friend know he was there, and he was listening.

“It sucks,” Castiel’s breath hitched again, his voice thick.

“Yeah. It blows.”

“Even if I...we didn’t always agree...I didn’t want this.”

“I know, Cas. No one did.”

“They’re gone.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re gone.”

“Yeah, Cas, they are.”

“And I did that. Even if I didn’t know what I was doing, I did it. Because I thought I had to.”

“Been there, dude. S’kinda fucked up how often.”

“I tried. I tried, I swear.”

“I know you did.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“No one thinks you did, man.”

The snort Castiel made was a harsh, a little wet, and his hand scrubbed over his face. “I fucking broke my family.”

“Not all of it, Cas. You got me and Sam.”

“Shit.” 

Dean jostled him a little. “Hey, we ain’t that bad. Course we’ve broken a hell of a lot of crap too. Nobody’s perfect.”

“Yeah...yeah, I know, Dean. We have some really bad similarities like that.” Castiel voice sounded a little stronger as he swiped at his face again.

The chuckle that came from the hunter wasn’t very humorous, but it wasn’t altogether bitter either. “Guess they picked the right guy to perch on my shoulder then.”

Castiel inhaled once more, a drawn out suss of breath before he blew it out, gathering himself a little. “I guess so. Either my Father has a heightened sense of irony or he’s a giant dick.”

“You gonna be offended if I go with the second one?” Dean queried.

“No, that was my pick too.”

They didn’t say anything after that, and the night slipped by, stars slowly wheeling overhead. It wasn’t until the sky began to smear orange, then yellow, that Castiel finally edged away. Dean carefully didn’t look at him as he sat back; Castiel dug the heel of his palm into his eye, one then the other. Only when he cleared his throat and stared out over the field, eyes narrowing as he watched the horizon grow brighter, did the hunter look at him, studying his profile.

“Better?”

“I think so. That was unexpectedly cathartic.”

“I’m gonna assume that’s a good thing.”

Castiel glanced over at him with a little smile, “It wasn’t a bad thing. I think it was overdue.”

“Repression’s a bitch like that.” He patted his friend’s knee. 

The ex-angel’s hand immediately folded over his, keeping it there. “Thank you, Dean.” Now he was looking at the hunter fully, those unnaturally blue eyes boring into him, same as ever. “And I’m sorry. That was a...prolonged chick flick moment. I know you hate those.”

“S’cool, Cas. Sometimes you-” He didn’t move his hand. Why wasn’t he moving his hand? “You gotta get all that stuff out. Even if it doesn’t fix anything it takes the edge off.”

“The indulgence is appreciated, regardless.” The ex-angel’s expression wasn’t nearly as severe as it had been earlier, softer now, and tired from something more than a night without sleep. He looked wrung out, but not in the bad sense. 

“Anytime, Cas.” Now would be a great time to move his hand. And yet it stayed right there, under the slight pressure of Castiel’s.

“I don’t plan to make this a habit, hopefully.” His face was angled towards Dean’s. 

“Yeah...well…” Dean licked his lips, words finally failing him. There wasn’t anything he could say, not a damn thing entered his mind, only the utterly unguarded expression on Castiel’s’ face, how he’d never seen him quite like this before, and he didn’t know if he hated it or liked it too much.

Castiel took mercy on him, or at least he realized the episode of unexpected emotional purging was over, and slid off the hood of the car. He jammed his hands in his jean pockets and looked around as though spying something of interest. 

“Besides, the sensation is physically unpleasant,” the ex-angel said brusquely. “My eyes feeling like they’re burning, and I need to blow my nose.” His voice had reverted back to the one he used when listing all the things about being human he found irksome, like being so tired you can’t sleep or Sam’s flatulence. 

Dean’s seized the opportunity for what it was, sweet escape from that weirdass moment when him and Cas were sitting there looking at each other and all sorts of stuff was just out there, hanging between them, raw and unspoken. 

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course. S’probably some wet naps in the glovebox, I’ll get ‘em.” He quickly circled around the car to reach into the passenger side window. He shook his head at Sammy still sawing logs in the backseat, the big moose. He was about to reach over to shake him awake when Castiel’s head appeared in the driver’s side window, and he shook his head. Dean glanced between his brother and friend then smirked as Castiel’s hand landed on the horn.

Sam jolted upright, one hand flailing out to smack the back of the front seat, the other grabbing at his side, automatically fishing for the gun that wasn’t there. His head collided with the top of the roof with a thump.

“Fuck! Ow! What?!” He shouted, rubbing his head. “Dean! Asshole!”

“Morning to you too, sunshine. Wasn’t me,” he said with a smile, hooking a thumb at Castiel who waved through the window at Sam. Ok, Dean totally enjoyed Castiel’s dickish side at times like this. Especially when he ganged up on Sam with him.

Sam managed to look both betrayed and a little impressed as he muttered “bastard” in Castiel’s direction.

“Since you’re so well-rested it’s your turn to drive” Castiel informed him primly as he opened the back door and gestured for Sam to get out so he could get in, immediately laying on the seat fpr a nap. Sam looked around in confusion at the scenery then checked his watch, clearly wondering why it was morning and they were in a field instead of the bunker. Dean shrugged, not up for explaining at the moment, or ever, and threw himself into the passenger seat. He dug through the glove box to find the wet naps and tossed them over his shoulder.

“In the face. Nice,” came a grumble behind him.

“That’s what she said,” he replied automatically.

“Gross,” Sam muttered as he got behind the wheel, still rubbing his head and giving both of them and annoyed look. 

“Who is ‘she’?” floated the voice from the backseat and Dean chuckled.

As Sam drove his older brother slouched in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and sunglasses on. Dean worked very hard to not think too hard about what happened. He was wiped too, even if he hadn’t been the one dumping his emotional baggage all over the place. It was exhausting being the dumping ground too.

His friend, his best friend, had a weird but understandable mood swing. He had to get some crap off his chest, a lot of it. There’d been times when the last thing Dean wanted to do was have any sort of heart-to-heart with Castiel, but that mostly had to do with him not wanting to say stuff that probably should’ve been said a while back. 

It was easier to listen, to stow his crap, and let his friend pour out all the messy stuff. He not only owed it to Castiel, he wanted to.

All the times he’d demanded Castiel stand by him, do what he asked, what he demanded, the angel almost always tried to be there for Dean. Even when they had the biggest blowouts, when Castiel kicked his ass up and down that dirty alley when he tried to give Michael the Big Yes. When the angel been half a dozen screws loose and fresh out of the nuthouse he’d stormed Sucracorp with the hunter and got blown to Purgatory while taking down Dick.

Cas had been there right in the thick of it every time, hauling Dean’s ass out of the literal fire more times than the hunter could count.

Least he could do would be his first actual shoulder to cry on. 

And he wasn’t gonna think about if Castiel actually cried or not. 

Nope, he was gonna get some sleep and not think about any of that.

They didn’t talk about it again either, not when they got home, or when they all crashed again, or when they got up. Life carried on after Castiel’s little meltdown and Dean’s surprisingly sensitive reaction. The world did not, in fact, end and life continued in all of its relative mundanity.

They argued over who drank the last of the coffee; whose turn it was to help Castiel in the kitchen so he didn’t set something on fire; they debated a case consultation they caught from Garth over whether it was a shifter or a siren; and it was decided rock-paper-scissors was going to result in Castiel always picking the movie so now it was coin flips. Which Castiel also won and decided he wanted to see what the hell people got so worked up over regarding Harry Potter. Dean resolutely refused to watch the first one because sitting through 2 hours of bad kid acting was a torture Crowley could use in Hell. Thank god they all improved by Prisoner of Azkaban.

During dinner one evening they received a call from Jodi Mills of possible werewolves, or maybe skinwalkers, in her area. 

“Well, which is it?” Dean asked, his cell phone on speaker as he, Sam, and Castiel hurriedly piled their plates with spaghetti, well aware they’d be on the road shortly after the call ended. 

“Hell if I know the difference. That’s why I have you two,” Jodi sassed down the line.

“Three, actually,” Sam piped up, forcibly pulling the garlic bread basket out of Castiel’s hand before he could put most of it on his plate.

“Three? You guys pick up a spare when I wasn’t looking?”

“Hello, Sheriff Mills. It’s Castiel.” 

There was a long pause before Jodi’s voice came back, as polite as they’d ever heard her. 

“Hi, Castiel. I’ve heard quite a bit about you. If an angel’s coming to town do I say rosary or anything? Anything special you need? ” Sam and Dean’s traded quirked eyebrows at each other. That was certainly a rare respectful tone coming from Jodi. 

Castiel’s mouth opened, then closed, the man clearly at a loss as to how to explain himself, his current state, or if he should even attempt it. 

Sam saved him the effort by jumping in, “So, Jodi, when’d you first get sign something was off? Any injured yet, or dead?” Although his attention was diverted he still managed to slap Dean’s hand when it went for the garlic bread too.

Within half an hour they were putting away clean dishes and pulling together their go bags and arsenals. Castiel handed over the younger hunter’s weapons bag as Sam piled his satchel with a few lore and spell books that may come in handy. 

“I’m looking forward to meeting Sheriff Mills.” While Castiel’s voice was as even as ever his expression wasn’t nearly as placid.

“Yeah, Cas, she’s great. If we’re lucky she’ll make us a home cooked meal between fussing us out.”

“She sounds a little like Ellen.”

Sam laughed quietly, tucking an errant lock of hair behind one ear. “A little, yeah. You’ll like her. Pretty sure she’ll like you too, if you’re nervous about that.”

“I’m not,” Castiel affirmed, albeit with enough of a pause to confirm he was still a shitty liar.

“Look, we’ll explain the situation, your situation, to her. As much or as little detail as you’re cool with. But she’s not gonna judge you, Cas.”

“I’d appreciate that. You know her best, therefore I defer to your judgement how much to share.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, one of the more obvious tics he’d developed that showed he was reluctant to say something but was going to anyway. “I hope I don’t cause her any crisis of faith. If she learned what happened, what I did...”

He trailed off, his lips pressed together in a grim line.

Sam’s expression softened and he patted Castiel on the shoulder. “You won’t. She’s good people, and she’s rolled with the weird for a while now. It'll be fine.”

Castiel nodded resolutely, apparently determined he would make the best possible impression, fallen angel or not, then headed for the garage.

As he entered he found the elder hunter on the phone. “Hey, hey! I need you to slow down, Charlie. I can’t understand a thing you’re saying.”

Castiel paused putting his bag in the backseat as Dean snapped his fingers to get his attention. “Say that again?” The hunter’s brow furrowed as he listened to the high pitched voice chatter down the line with the ex-angel leaning in to listen.

“Totally textbook. Cold spots. Heebs and jeebs. EMFs in the red, all sorts of electrical interference. Dean, it fried my laptop!” The last part was said with a huff of indignation.

“Yeah, sounds like a ghost. Salt and burn, Charlie, you know that.”

“Duh, Dean. Thing is digging up a grave is kinda a big job for one person, particularly when that one person is me. I wasn’t built for this sort of labor.”

Dean rolled his eyes and mimed blah-blah-blah at Castiel who batted his hand away and tugged the phone closer to his ear. 

“I dunno Charlie, we just got a call from Sioux Falls. Cattle mutilations and a mauled jogger. We're heading out right now.”

“C’mooooon, I just need a little muscle. It’s in the middle of the town graveyard, super easy. But it’ll take days for me to dig it up myself, and I’ll get caught. Orange is not my new black, I’m not ready to be someone’s prison wife. Dean, pleeeeease,” Charlie wheedled. “I’m only 3 hours from you, a quick in and out. Two days max, promise!”

Dean sighed mightily. “My liege, begging is beneath you. Ok, I’ll send Sam-son of a bitch!” He flinched away from Castiel who’d just pinched the ever loving hell out of his side. 

_What?!_ He mouthed, glaring. Damnit, that was going to leave a bruise for sure.

Castiel scowled, pointed to himself then forcefully jabbed his finger at the phone. _Send me!_

 _No way!_ Dean mouthed back then took a couple of quick steps backwards when Castiel’s look turned venomous and his raised his hand again.

Dean shot him the middle finger. _FINE!_

Whatever. According to Charlie the job was a cake walk anyway. It better be, or Dean would stomp her crown into the dirt next time he saw her.

“Dean, you alright?”

“Yeah, fine. I’m sending Cas, actually.” The ex-angel gave him the smuggest of smug looks and went to move his bag from the Impala to the Thunderbird.

“Ooh, I finally get to the meet the famous Cas? And without a chaperone?” Charlie’s voice teased.

“I’m regretting this already. Seriously, Charlie, don’t-”

“Don’t what?” she asked way too innocently. Great, he was going to get back one seriously confused and probably traumatized former celestial being.

“ **Just don’t**.” he warned, voice sharper than he usually used with the sister he never asked for. “Be nice, don’t give him a hard time, and for god’s sake don’t get him arrested. Talk about not being ready to be a prison bitch.” He shot that last part over the hood of the car at Castiel, making sure his friend heard him. 

He was rewarded with a world class stink eye and Castiel taking Dean’s favorite shotgun from the Impala’s trunk as payback. He still hadn’t figured out if he loathed or loved how petty Castiel had become.

“Text me the address, and he’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Yes! Dean, tha-”

“Don’t thank me, just send him back in one piece.”

“That’s so cute. I’ll take good care of your boyfriend.”

“Shut it, he’s not-” He realized he was talking to a dead line. “Ugh. You. Don’t make me regret this either.” He pointed at Castiel as the man passed him once more, heading back into the bunker.

“Your faith in my ability to complete a simple salt and burn is not at all flattering,” Castiel warned as the hunter followed him up the stairs. 

“Can it, Cas. I’m allowed to be a little wary sending you out solo the first time. I was with Sam, so now it’s your turn. Suck it up.” He followed Castiel right into his room, hot on his heels.

“You got your 2 IDs? Don’t carry both on you, that’s just asking for trouble.” Dean opened Castiel’s wallet and plucked one out to wave under his nose. “One in your wallet, the other in your bag. And remember, you get pulled over they’ll pop you for carrying so don’t leave your guns laying in plain sight in the car.” Castiel nodded and slipped into his shoulder holster, tucking a Sig under his left arm. 

“That Ford takes only 91 or higher ethanol free octane, so don’t put the cheap shit in it. Got your charger and backup battery? That car doesn’t have a lighter for charging.”

Castiel opened his desk drawer and withdrew his charger and power cell to show to Dean. He would indulge the hunter’s need to hover for the time being; soon enough he’d be on the road alone. “I know, Dean. What else?”

The hunter muscled Castiel to the side gently and poked through his bag then went to his closet to grab his suit. “Even if Charlie says it’s a milk run, always take your suit with you. Always. You never know when you'll have to sweet talk the locals.” He looked Castiel up and down. “Maybe you should leave that to Charlie.” He was kidding. Sort of, not really.

“Hilarious,” Castiel deadpanned. “Anything else?” 

Dean looked around his room and seemed to fail to finding anything else to fuss over. Suddenly snapped his fingers. “Wait, ha! Hang on.” He ducked into the hallway and returned a minute later, waggling a cassette at him. “Road tunes. An absolute must.” He looked pleased with himself.

Until Castiel said, “The car doesn’t have a tape deck, only AM/FM.” 

“Ugh, fine, nevermind. Apparently there’s such a thing as too classic.” 

“Sam offered to install a more modern sound system in it, something about an iPod.”

“No, Cas. NO. Fucking blasphemy. I will shoot you both.”

Castiel held up a hand in surrender. “I’ll make do with the radio. Can we go?” The ex-angel worked very hard not to sound impatient. Dean nodded and waved him ahead.

Sam cocked his head in the obvious silent question when Castiel swung into the driver’s seat of the Thunderbird. Dean leaned down to rest his elbows on the rolled down window. 

“I sent the address to your phone, just tap the message-”

“And the GPS will open up and provide me with directions. Yes, thank you, Dean.”

“Drop us a line when you get there. I don’t need to be stressing you put this beauty in a ditch.” He patted the car’s panelling with a smirk.

“I’m an excellent driver, Dean, you said so yourself.” 

“Again, sounding a little too much like Rainman, Cas. But don’t be calling or texting when you’re driving, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And don’t listen to any of Charlie’s bullshit stories about us. And if she brings up Moondoor, just Google it. Asking her to explain it will shave years off your life.” Even if it was fun as shit. They should totally get together before summer ended for another LARP. Castiel would make a hell of a knight, or a maybe a warrior cleric. Either way it would be cool.

“Noted.”

“Don’t let her get away with not helping you dig. Even if she talks about broken nails just get firm with her and she’ll be cool.”

Castiel smiled a little. Dean talked about Charlie in gruff ways, often complaining, but his affection for the woman was clear. “Got it, put her to work.”

“And if she tries to take you out drinking don’t fall for it. It’s a trap. You’ll regret it.” Dear God, would he. Dean still actively worked to suppress the memories he had of the night Charlie introduced him to Lemon Drops. Just like tequila shooters, his ass. 

“No drinking with Charlie, I understand. Anything more?” His patience was nearing its limit, and it was starting to leak into his voice.

Dean huffed, blew out his cheeks, and drummed on the car frame before he looked at Castiel again.

“Nah, man. Just…be careful. Okay?” Castiel’s head tilted to the side, his irked expression smoothing over at Dean’s look. It wasn’t one of consternation, that Castiel would do something astoundingly stupid or dangerous at any moment; it was simple concern for his well-being. He didn’t have the heart to get defensive about that.

“I promise to do my best. And I’ll call when I get to my destination.” To demonstrate he popped his phone into the dashboard mount Dean had installed and tapped his text messages, giving Dean a little smile when the GPS opened up and began plotting his route. “In 3 and a half hours, barring the 10 or so minutes I’ll spend getting gas as the tank is only half full.”

Dean pushed back from the car and waited by the Impala as Castiel pulled out of his parking bay and cruised past them. Dean lifted a hand as the Ford’s tail lights gleamed red down the tunnel that lead to the service road before disappearing around the corner.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean started minutely. “What?”

“Sure you don’t wanna walk him to the bus then follow it to school?”

“Bite me.”

“Dean, he’s gonna be fine, relax. He’s more capable than you think.”

“Hey, I think he’s plenty capable! It’s just…” his voice trailed off, eyes glancing in the direction the Ford disappeared.

“We’ll see him in a couple of days, no big. Until then either unclench or I’m putting Xanax in your drink.”

“Actually, that sounds kinda fun.” 

“Seriously, stop stressing. Cas is a good hunter, and you know it. He should’ve been given his own job before now.”

Dean’s shoulders hiked up defensively. Sam was saying all the shit Dean had been thinking, and relentlessly stamping down, the last couple of months.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if he comes back hurt I’m kicking his ass.” 

Sam rolled his eyes and got into the passenger seat, pulling out his phone to shoot off a quick message. “I’ll let Jody know we’re on our way.”

_Sam: Have fun with Charlie. Text Dean a few times or he’s gonna drive me crazy_

_Cas: I’m aware. I’ll try, for your sanity’s sake._

Sam smirked. Castiel wasn’t gone 5 minutes before he blew off Dean’s mother-henning and started texting behind the wheel. He loved that about the guy. 

It was good, great even, that Castiel finally got a chance to go solo, even if it was just for a couple of days. Sam was positive both his friend and Dean needed to take a breather from each other. He certainly needed one from the two of them. Not that they were fighting, far from it, but he was well aware Dean’s version of caring was absolutely smothering. 

Castiel needed some space, not because he wanted to get away from Dean or Sam, but because he needed a little room to grow without Dean’s constant hovering. 

And Dean needed to take a step back himself, even if he’d never admit it. He was wound tighter than a drum head, constantly fretting over Castiel’s progress as a hunter, as a human. Sure, he’d loosened up a bit with the driving, but his brother still fussed way too much over the ex-angel. 

He knew Dean was just being protective, but he also knew Castiel’s felt micromanaged. It was an explosive combination, given how equally stubborn and sometimes obnoxiously violent the two men were. 

Sam was incredibly relieved Charlie’s case came up when it did because, frankly, all 3 of them needed a break. It was pretty tiring constantly working not to pick a side between his brother and his closest friend. A little time apart was just the thing.

_Sam: And definitely go drinking with Charlie._

_Cas: I was planning to._

Sam couldn't help but laugh at that.


	16. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I return! Sorry for the wait, I had a big convention last month and it sucked up all my time as I was preparing a new cosplay, Armored Seraphim Castiel, for competition. My genderbend original creation had 7 foot wing span, a ton of armor, and about 300 LEDs. After the con I had post-con crash and a family vaca, so time got away from me, but I kept plugging away so here's a new LOOOONG chapter (6000+ words, you're welcome).
> 
> Next chapter Castiel will be meeting some new people, familiar faces in the SPN family but ones he's never interacted with before, so I'm looking forward to it. Hope you are too.

Castiel double checked the address on the GPS before parking in front of a rather pleasant hotel, brightly lit with neatly trimmed hedges ringing the 4 story structure. He reminded himself that simply because Sam and Dean usually elected to stay in rather grimy motels on the highway did not mean every hunter would. From what he’d gleaned about Charlie she was not your average hunter.

“More of consultant. And a giant computer geek,” as Dean had described her. What the difference what between Charlie being a geek and Sam being a nerd Castiel wasn’t entirely clear on, but he supposed it had something to do with both of them being very intelligent. He liked intelligent people.

He rapped briskly on the door for room 212 and was rewarded with a feminine voice shouting, “Coming! Hold your horses! Ah! Ow!”

He glanced up and down the hall and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a little anxious. The Winchesters held a very high regard for Charlie, and he wished to make a good impression. How he would accomplish that he’d not yet fully determined, but he’d resolved during the drive that it would, at the least, entail not swearing or inflicting physical pain on her. That was something that had become part of his daily interactions with Sam and Dean, not always under the guise of training, but he knew he couldn’t behave in that manner with everyone. 

It was how they expressed their familiarity, affection, and annoyance with each other. Friendly bodily harm and cutting insults on not infrequent occasions.

The hotel room door was flung open with such violence he took a step back instinctively. 

“Sorry! Tripped! Hi!” the short redhead said breathlessly as she bent over and rubbed her shin.

“Er...hi.”

She straightened up and the grin she directed at him had Castiel resisting the urge to move back another pace; it was mischievous in the same manner Gabriel used to direct at him . “So I finally lay my eyes on the famous Castiel.”

“Yes?” he loathed the uncertain note in his voice and wondered how it got there. He lifted a hand to give a small wave before that arm was suddenly pinned to his side by an unexpected hug, the other flailing for a moment to retain his hold on his weapons duffle. “Ah...oh...it’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Charlie.” 

Well, this wasn’t so bad. He’d certainly had worse greetings.

“You too, Cas.” She squeezed him shockingly hard then stepped back before he had a chance to do more than attempt to awkwardly pat her on the shoulder. “C’mon in. Careful where you walk, don’t trip on my lines.”

He poked his head into the room and saw several colorful cables snaking across the floor from the wall to a desk opposite where a formidable looking computing array sat with 3 monitors, each screen showing a different image and another two lines crossed to a bed where an additional laptop sat. He carefully stepped over the cables to put his bags down on the far side of the room before he took the seat Charlie waved him towards.

“Please tell me about the-”

“Hang on, I just need to finish this raid. Just a tic.” Charlie plunked herself back into a chair in front of the computer system on the desk and starting typing quickly, fingers pounding the keyboard at machine gun pace. The monitor to the right flashed into action, multiple animated figures running across a digital field of battle.

“Guys, I’m back, but for only 5, so let’s bury the boss. I gotta get to work.”

Castiel’s eyebrows rose as Charlie began speaking to...someone. A moment later her fingers abandoned the keyboard to tie her hair back in a loose bun and Castiel spotted the small earpiece in her right ear with a slim arm that projected towards her mouth. A headset, that made sense. She was playing a computer game and communicating with other players elsewhere. 

Castiel had barely begun to plumb the depths of the internet, and every part of it was fascinating. Except 4chan. He never visited that site again after his first accidental foray.

He’d see similar computing setups like Charlie’s on the Youtube and television. The most sophisticated electronic game he’d played to date was Words with Friends with Sam on his cell phone. It was only because Sam insisted they use English and Latinate derivatives solely that hunter able to compete relatively evenly with Castiel.

He scooted his chair closer to watch, eyes flicking between Charlie’s rapid-fire keystrokes, the flashing, quick paced action on the screen, and the woman’s good natured cajoling at teammates he could neither hear nor see. It was intriguing.

All too quickly for his taste Charlie finished her endeavor, the gaming screen flashing with simulated flames, and a tinny thread of rousing music trickled from her headset before the monitor switched to an incomprehensibly complex menu. 

She signed off with a “Peace out, bitches” into the mouthpiece before she pulled the gear off to hang around her neck.

She spun her chair around to look at him. “Sorry about that. It took week for my guild to coordinate our schedules for this raid. Anywho,” her left hand moved her mouse to click on something so the center and left screens lit up. “The case. Media articles on your left, my research right there.” She pointed as someone knocked on the hotel room door.

Castiel rose from his seat instantly, his hand on the Sig under his jacket.

Charlie looked up at him wide-eyed. “Okaaaay. Relax, Rambo, that would be pizza delivery.” She shook her head as she headed for the door. “You’re worse than Dean.”

He didn’t know if that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment. 

While Charlie paid the pizza guy he slid into her chair to start navigating through the media reports, then switched to the other screen to read her notes. 

He eyebrows rose as he clicked through pages of her work. There was a colorful graph with spikes indicating an increase in suspicious, possibly supernatural, activity in the town along a horizontal timeline dating back months. Her notes contained hyperlinks that opened cross referenced materials both online and in a shared document folder. Sam should take notes.

“You’re very well organized...is that a scan of the Galdrabòk?”

Charlie nodded, winding stringy melted cheese around a finger as she plunked cross legged into Castiel’s’ vacated chair. 

“Ordered a digital copy online. The guy we’re supposed to dig up was a second gen immigrant from Iceland, so I figured why not? Turned out to be a big nothing, but the reading’s interesting.” She offered him a slice, which he ate carefully with one hand while slowly clicking through the impressive volume of data Charlie had collated on the case with the other. While it still appeared to be a fairly straightforward vengeful ghost job the research behind it was exhaustive and illuminating.

“I wish we had something like this in the bunker,” he admitted as he clicked through one digital cross reference after another, enjoying the intricate web of source material Charlie had tied together across various platforms. 

The deeper he delved through her work the clearer it became to the former angel this was practically a map to the way she thought: newspaper articles, census data, birth, wedding, death certificates, a tabloid clipping, an email exchange with someone at Oxford, an archived chat with someone named Highlord of the Red Moon, a.k.a Emil, who knew a guy whose cousin’s mom used to work with the one of the victims. Anything, everything, meaningful and superfluous. Charlie appeared to have wandered down every path of inquiry she’d come across, curiously poking about. 

She had a magnificent mind. He would absolutely call upon her in the future and perhaps not only for casework. 

Charlie reached over to scoop up the black olives Castiel discarded on a napkin to add to her newest slice. “Don’t know why you don’t have something more up to date. You guys are sitting on so much data! All you gotta do is scan those books in the library to my private server. I designed my own hunter’s digital database ages ago, so much easier than flipping through literal pages. You can just Ctrl+F, BAM! Keyword search, easiest thing ever.” She spread her fingers in jazz hands, clearly proud of herself. 

Castiel nodded quickly as he continued to click, going deeper down the fascinating rabbit hole she’d dug, until he’d finished the pizza with her and reached the end of the data on the current case. 

“I’m incredibly intrigued by the idea of a shared online hunter’s archive, even if the logistics of it are beyond me at the moment,” he said with a little smile which grew when Charlie visibly preened. “This is brilliant and has tremendous potential. I’d like to help in whatever way I can.” 

Charlie pulled a leg up and rested her chin on her knee, looking at him with a warm expression. “The guys never told me you were such a sweet talker, Cas. Thanks.”

“I believe that’s the first time anyone has said that about me,” he admitted, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. 

Charlie appeared to take pity on his obvious discomfort at the compliment and spun her chair in a circle. “Enough talk about how amazing I am, because the archive platform really is small potatoes to design. Time to talk turkey about,” she stopped her chair as she faced him once more. “Digging up a dead body and setting it on fire. The least appealing part of this gig, TBH.”

Castiel pushed away from the keyboard and leaned back, the topic finally coming to land in more comfortable territory. It didn’t take long for them to discuss the plan for the next evening. Mercifully, it would be a new moon to hide their work in the less-than-ideally located cemetery in the middle of town. Castiel pointed out that given the size of this town their unfamiliar cars, his bright green and hers an eye-searing yellow, parked anywhere near the graveyard may pique the curiosity of the local constabulary. And, based on the information she’d gathered, it may not be the only place they had to trespass, so they needed to consider their options. 

Charlie waved that away by informing him she planned set up a series of harmless, but attention diverting, emergency calls to auto-dial from her computer, thus ensuring the local fuzz would spend their time roaming hither and yon all over the county. All without being able to trace the calls back to their source.

Castiel was just about to commend her on another clever idea when his phone rang, some obnoxious ringtone Sam programmed that Castiel had yet to figure out how to change. He fished it out of his jacket and grimaced as he turned his chair away from Charlie to answer. 

“Hello, Dean...around 10pm.,” he said contritely over the raised voice fussing at him down the line. “I know I said I would call as soon as I arrived. What? I got distracted. Yes, she’s here. She’s fine. I’m fine.” His shoulders hunched up. “Dean, we’re both fine. No...yes, 91 octane.” 

A slim hand darted in and the phone was plucked from his grip before he knew it.

“Hiya, Dean!” She winked at Castiel as she spun in her chair once more. “I couldn’t help but overhear you trying to mom Cas to death. You know he’s, like, 4 million years old right?” Castiel resisted the urge to correct her estimation by several thousand eons. 

“Yuh-huh. Sure. Riiiiiiight. Tell ya what, I promise to feed and water him like the delicate little hothouse flower he is, and you’ll get out of our hair. BYEEEEE.”” With a flourish she hung up on the hunter and lobbed the phone to bounce on the spare bed as she smirked at Castiel. “You’re welcome.”

His mouth hung open for a moment before it broke into a smile. “I like you very much.”

“Thanks. I am very likeable.” He held out her fist for a bump, which he provided immediately. “And don’t sweat Dean, you know he’s all bark and only 70% bite. The bigger a butthead he is the more he likes you.”

“Then he must be an exceptionally large butthead to you.” He was extremely pleased when she broke into a laugh.

They spent another hour of discussing their plan for the following day, including a quick jaunt to the coroner’s office to examine the spirit’s latest victim before they would likely head to the cemetery. By then Castiels’ eyelids felt heavy, and he gladly took Charlie up on the offer of the second bed in the room.

After washing up and punching the too soft hotel pillow into an acceptable shape under his head he became aware his roommate was perched on the edge of her bed 3 feet away in Star Trek sleep pants and t-shirt, staring at him.

“You look like you want to say something.”

Charlie looked relieved to have received permission. “So an angel, huh?”

“Formerly, yes.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?”

“When you fell from Heaven?” She smiled brightly at him..

“Physically, no. I was unconscious. But the emotional anguish was excruciating. It often still is, despite the passage of time.”

Charlie’s expression collapsed in on itself. “Oh my god,” she moaned and quickly crossed herself, albeit completely backwards, like someone who doesn’t generally perform the action. 

“I’m sooooo sorry, it was a joke. It’s, like, the most classic terrible pick up line. I didn’t mean it like that.” She covered her face with her hands and peeked between her fingers in mortification.

“It’s fine. I usually don’t get jokes.” He paused and rolled his head to look at her. “Pick up line? But you’re not picking me up.”

“Ha, nope!” She seemed to recover from her slip-up quickly, since Castiel didn’t seem offended.

“Because you’re homosexual.”

“Ah, yeah. About that…” the redhead caught her lower lip in her teeth, looking a little discomfited.

“I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation, if that’s your concern.”

“Well, I figured you would be cool, but what about other angels? What’s God’s stance on the whole loving ladies thing?”

“Considering homosexuality and asexual reproduction is rife among a wide variety of life forms it’s not an issue. Either cosmologically or spiritually.” He propped up on his elbows, looking at her. “Of all the sins that get souls cast into hell, this isn’t one of them.” 

Charlie gave him a relieved look, as though this was something that had niggled at her even if she wasn’t a particularly religious gal. 

He added, “If you love someone wholly and selflessly, it doesn’t matter what vessel the soul occupies. It’s a blessing, not a sin.”

Charlie nodded and shifted to sprawl on her side, still facing him. “Man, if only the hateful holy-rollers knew an actual angel was like NOPE.”

“Former angel. And not the best one, to be honest. I doubt it would make a difference. Some people choose to waste their free will hating others for no good reason. Sometimes people are... just mean.” 

Charlie propped her head up on her hand. “Well I don’t know any other angels, or former angels, but you seem alright to me. And you gotta be cool if Sam and Dean let you live with them.” She sighed in a rather dramatic fashion. “They haven’t even invited **me** to bunk in the bunker. That place is pretty sweet, even if the tech is painfully out of date.”

“Do you want to?” Castiel ventured and tried to imagine a fourth in their home. Someone so lively and, apparently, not nearly as jaded as the Winchesters. 

“Ha! No way! Too much testosterone,” she waved a hand in front of her face as though wafting away an unpleasant smell. “And I would never be able to bring a girl home. Nah, I like being nomadic, keeps things from getting boring.” She pointed at her computer setup across the room. “And the stuff I get up too? It’s best to not stick around one place too long.”

“Thank you for the identification cards, by the way. They’re very convincing.”

“No problem, I dupe stuff like that all the time for extra money. You’ve got two upstanding and well rounded identities with Social Security numbers, tax records, boring work history, and a good credit rating. Everything you need to get up to no good.”

“I appreciate it. Would you be able to provide a few more? I’d like some government agency IDs. The one FBI card I have seems inadequate. Sam and Dean have several.”

“No problem, you’ll have a full deck by the time I kick you out. Anything else?”

He laid back down and laced his fingers over his chest, thinking. “...could you change the ringtone on my phone?”

He found Charlie’s snort quite endearing.

When he got up in the morning he moved quietly, loathe to wake the redhead before she desired to get vertical. He quickly dressed and left a note on the hotel stationary for stating he would be back with breakfast shortly. Once in the lobby he checked his phone for the weather report and found 2 text messages from Dean that had arrived quite late, after he’d fallen asleep.

Dean: _Tell Charlie to bite me._

Dean: _And sorry. Didn’t mean to yell when you picked up the phone._

He waited until he was sitting at the diner counter, with an exceptionally strong coffee in hand as he perused the menu, before he called the hunter. It was after 9am, Dean had surely had his 4 hours sleep by now. Although these days it had crept closer to 6.

“Huh, Cas?” Or not. Dean’s voice was muzzy with sleep.

“My apologies, I thought you’d be up by now. Please go back to bed.”

“Mm? Nah, s’fine,” Dean yawned down the line. “What’s up? You doing okay?”

Castiel stifled the urge to inform him for the 40th time he was FINE and to quit asking.  
“Nothing’s up. Charlie is still asleep so I’m at the-” he glanced at the menu “-Silver Dollar Diner waiting for breakfast.”

“Ooh, the country fried steak there is the awesome, you need to try it.” Castiel heard shuffling down the line, Dean presumably getting out of bed.

“I’ll consider it. Do you have any recommendations for Charlie? I didn’t wish to wake her, and I’ve no idea what she’d prefer.”

“They got pancakes with fruit or anything? She’ll be fine with that. Also grab a handful of sugar packets to go with her coffee, and I mean a big handful.” Dean mumbled and his voice was muffled for a moment. Castiel assumed he was dressing and on the hunt for his own coffee. 

“Thank you...and I’m sorry I didn’t call when I arrived. I know I promised and-”

“Cas,” Dean cut him off. “S’alright. I shouldn’t’ve overreacted.” There was a rattle in the background then Dean sighed happily. “Aaahhh, Jody, you make a mean cup of joe.” 

Castiel smiled a little bit, he could easily picture Dean’s face as he sat at the table, smiling at Sheriff Mills, with whom he and Sam apparently stayed last night, his hair most likely ruffled from sleep. 

“S’okay, you don’t need to check in all the time. Didn’t mean to act like you should. You’re your own man, y’know?” Dean said, and it sounded a little like a recitation.

“Sam’s sitting right there, isn’t he?” 

“The hell? How’d you know that?”

“That sounds like something he told you to say.”

“Ah screw you,” But Dean didn’t sound mad; he huffed a short laugh instead. “Fine, busted. But ditto from me anyway.”

Castiel hoped his friend would stick to that. Besides, he wouldn’t mind calling to check in once in awhile if this was the sort of conversation they would have, simple and lacking in criticism.

“Charlie is very pleasant company.”

“You haven’t spent enough time around her.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her that.”

“Don’t, man. Last time I cheesed her off she hacked my phone and furry porn appeared every time I opened the internet.” Castiel didn’t know what furry porn was, but he assumed it was the kind of pornography Dean didn’t enjoy.

“Are sure that was Charlie and not simply your favorites saved?” he offered and smiled when his attempt at a joke landed successfully and he heard Dean choke on the line, presumably taking a sip at the worst possible time.

“Y’know what? Don’t check in, not if you’re going to burn me like this, Cas. The betrayal.” The ex-angel could tell his friend was only feigning his sour tone. He was quite attuned to the nuances of the hunter’s voice.

“Noted. I should probably order.” He turned his attention to the waitress in front of him and ordered the chicken fried steak with hashbrowns and the blueberry pancakes to go. 

“Damn that sounds good. Jody’s left Sam to fend for us in the kitchen since she’s heading in early. He’s threatening to feed me egg whites, Cas.” Dean’s played up plaintive tone made the former angel huff in amusement.

“Sam Winchester is a monster.”

The spent a few more minutes talking about nothing at all, idle conversation interspersed with Dean bickering with Sam about food, until Castiel’s order arrived and he headed out the door, the phone still pressed to his ear. The talk eventually turned to the case as he walked the few blocks back to the hotel.

“Charlie’s research indicates the ghost may have not turned vengeful of its own accord, but that his wife was unable to let him go and somehow tethered him here. I read Charlie’s interview notes with their long-time neighbor. They were exceptionally devoted, and the wife was not at all the same after he died. She claimed to still speak to him, and not metaphorically. The neighbor thought she may have become senile, but that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

“How many years since he croaked?” 

“Sixteen. The wife passed last year. Their house was sold and recently turned into a bed and breakfast. The spirit’s likely gone mad and is attacking the guests. It probably sees them as intruders in its home.”

“Huh. S’kinda sad.”

“Indeed. If it is tethered salting and burning the bones in the graveyard may not be enough. It could be attached to an object in the house or the house itself. And there is the possibility the wife’s spirit also lingers, if their connection is as strong as Charlie’s research leads me to believe. And no, I’m not going to burn down an entire building.”

”That is a load off my mind, man.” Castiel grumbled good naturedly at the teasing tone in Dean’s voice. “So, what, you’re gonna try to consecrate the house if it’s the tether?”

“Exactly.” This was why Castiel loathed it when Dean said Sam was the smart brother and dismissed his own intelligence. Sam may be more proficient in certain technical and research fields, but Dean’s hunting instincts and practicality when facing tricky cases was superior.

“Sounds like you got a good grip on this, Cas.” 

Castiel paused mid-stride, taken aback for a moment by Dean actually complimenting him on his casework. He knew Dean didn’t actually think he was a shitty hunter, but the man rarely gave him a pat on the back without undercutting it with sarcasm or criticism. It took him a moment to response.

“Thank you, that’s nice to hear, Dean.”

The hunter cleared his throat down the line. “Anyway, go do your thing, we’ll do ours. Me and Sam gotta head to the hospital to interview the vic, then we’ll go from there.”

“Good luck. I’ll touch base later.”

“Cas, I’m serious, don’t feel obligated you gotta check in. I didn’t mean to...y’know. Look, I trust you.”

Castiel had to gently kick the door a couple of times to get Charlie to open it, as his hands were full juggling the food, coffees, and the phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. He nudged her to the side so he could enter as he responded. “That’s a nice compliment, Dean. We’ll speak soon.” He hung up and arranged the meal on the desk, careful to move the keyboard and laser mouse to the side and press the coffee firmly into Charlie’s hand before letting go, as she was mid-yawn.

“Blueberry pancakes and a very large handful of sugar packets for your coffee.”

“You really are an angel,” the redhead murmured as she chucked her knuckles under his chin.

“No miracle, Dean told me your preferences.”

She gave him a speculative look. “Seems like his attitude adjusted since last night, given that smile on your face.”

He wasn’t aware he’d been smiling and, once it was pointed out, his expression rearranged itself into something more bland. The female hunter made a noise of amusement before humming with delight as she crammed the first bite of syrupy goodness into her mouth. The chicken fried steak was as tasty as promised, although Castiel took an antacid a little while after. He’d learned that, unlike Dean, he did not possess a cast-iron stomach and eating like this in the morning occasionally disagreed with him. One more irritating, but easily accommodated, quirk to maintaining his body now.

Hours later, under the cover of darkness, Charlie quietly lamented both the pancakes and the chili cheese hot dog she’d had for dinner as they both leaned on their crowbars to pry open the casket.

“Ugh, you don’t have any more of those Tums do you? Or a barf bag?”

Castiel paused to fish into his jeans pockets and handed over a crumpled roll of the chalk antacids before once more wriggling his fingers into the crack between the lid and casket to coax the decayed hinges to move. 

“This isn’t bad. A little musty, but overall Mr. Einarsson was embalmed quite well and has dessicated appropriately. It’s much more unpleasant when they are fresh and not buried properly.”

Charlie shone her penlight into the open coffin and made a face. “You know, to normal people that sentence would be weird.”

“I’ve learned there is nothing and no one who is actually normal.” He popped his head up over the edge of the open grave to check the cemetery once more to ensure it was still empty and quiet before ducking down again. “Which is actually quite comforting.”

“Yeah, I get it Syndrome, if we’re all special then none of us are.” Charlie sighed and pushed her bangs off her forehead then grimaced at the realization she’d smeared gravedirt on her face. 

He paused in pouring lighter fluid on the body and cocked his head. “That’s from The Incredibles, right?”

“Thank god Sam and Dean aren’t neglecting your real education,” Charlie quipped as she struggled to scamper out of the grave. 

She needed a boost to make it over the top and took the lighter fluid from Castiel as he pulled himself out much more easily. He sent he ahead with the tools to start the car while he murmured a handful of assorted prayers in half a dozen languages while dumping salt over the exposed corpse. 

The fact that they’d not been attacked while desecrating the grave was both a relief and a bad sign. It seemed more probable than ever the ghost was attached to something in its former home, and burning the bones would make no difference. But better to be safe than sorry, so Castiel set a book of matches on fire and stepped back a few paces before tossing it into the grave. 

Once the flames whooshed to life he turned and ran as quickly as he could for the wall surrounding the cemetery. As he approached the wrought iron barricade he sped up and jumped, easily gripping the top to swing himself up and over with a twisting motion. He dropped to a crouch just as Charlie’s bright yellow Gremlin barked to a stop in front of him.

“Nice moves, Spider-man.”

“I would have a suitable rejoinder if I’d seen those movies.” He hastily clamped the seat belt as Charlie sped around the corner so quickly he was in danger of being flung into her seat on top of her.

“I take it back, the Winchesters suck at this. How can you have not seen Spider-man?”

“Something about Sony ruining Marvel, I tuned Sam out because it was boring. ”

Charlie snorted, “That’s cold. So, we’re good? Ghost go poof?”

“No. That was too easy, and you know that usually means it didn’t work.”

“One day I’ll have a case that is actually that easy and will party like it’s 1999. Fiiiiine, undercover lovers it is,” she sighed as she slowed her car when they approached the more heavily trafficked main road in town, so as not to draw any more attention to her vehicle beyond it’s bright paint job.

“I’m not entirely comfortable with the contingency plan,” Castiel admitted.

Charlie reached over to pat him on the shoulder sympathetically as they stopped at a light. It was clear the former angel was infinitely more comfortable with digging up graves and lighting remains on fire than their agreed upon Plan B.

The following evening found Charlie putting him in a not-entirely gentle headlock as she raised her phone over their heads. “Say cheese!”

Castiel did not say cheese; therefore, his expression in the photo was more dour than usual as his compatriot sent the photo to the group text she’d set up with Sam and Dean.

Sam: _I’m not sure what’s going on but based on Cas’ expression it’s probably hilarious._

Dean: _Why are you in bed together????_

Charlie: _Because we’re in luuuuuuurve._

She followed her message with a series of heart eye emojis. Sam responded with the vomiting one. Dean with a simple “fuck you.”

“Bingo,” Charlie laughed as she released Castiel. He huffed indignantly as he sat up on the king-sized, floral comforter and brushed his hand over his hair in an effort to tidy it, but only succeeding in ruffling it up further. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

“You’ve only said it 10 times. Relax, we just have to wait for everyone to fall asleep, find whatever tchotchke in this place is the tether, we burn it and go. You said it was a good plan!” 

“I don’t see why we have to share a bed,” Castiel complained. Well, that and having to creep about a mostly full bed and breakfast in the dead of night to rid it of a ghost without waking anyone up. But mostly the sleeping accommodations.

Dean: _Seriously, wtf is going on?_

Sam: _Didn’t you hear, they’re in love. We’re probably interrupting the honeymoon._

Dean: _Shut up, asshat. CHARLIE!_

Charlie waggled her phone at Castiel so he could see the messages. He glanced at them then at her, eyebrows raised as he wasn’t sure what sort of response she expected from him.

She stared at him for a few moment before clucking, “Sam warned me you can’t pick up hints. Le sigh.” She thumbed out another message as he peered over her shoulder at the screen.

Charlie: _We’re staying at the B &B so we can find this tether thingy without having to break in._

Dean: _Doesn’t explain the bed sharing!_

Charlie: _Because hotties like us don’t check into a romantic getaway like this and ask for two beds. DUH._

“It’s suspicious,” she added to Castiel, who sighed but nodded as the reasoning was sound. It didn’t mean he was at ease with the idea. As much as he liked Charlie he’d never slept next to someone before. It made him feel uneasy.

Well, the bed was quite spacious, more than adequate room for the two of them, so it should be fine. If nothing else he could sleep on the floor; he’d done so on worse surfaces, like shop front stoops and bus seats.

Charlie: _We’re strictly G-rated, Dean, unbunch those panties._

Dean: _You swore you’d never bring that up!_

Sam: _You guys remember I’m in this group text, right?_

After that the phone fell silent, although Charlie’s laughter took a little longer to abate. When Castiel asked what exactly she’d sworn never to bring up the redhead mimed locking her lips and throwing an imaginary key over her shoulder.

Since they needed to wait until very late, after the other lodgers were asleep, before they could thoroughly inspect the house Castiel laid stiffly on top of the covers in his t-shirt and jeans, discarded boots on the floor.

“Can you poke me when it’s time to go all Scooby gang?” Charlie asked as she slipped under the covers in a pair of blue shorts and a Devo t-shirt.

“If you mean wake you up at 2am I can do that.” He folded his hands over his stomach and stared up at the ceiling.

After about 10 minutes, the redhead’s voice murmured. “You always sleep like you’re in a coffin?”

“I’m not sleeping.”

“Kinda got that from the open eyes. What’s up?”

“I’m not comfor-”

“Comfortable with this, yeah, I get that from the fact you’re clinging to your 5 inches on the far side of the bed for dear life, Cas. What’s the problem?”

He gathered his thoughts for a few moments, attempting to order them into a semblance of logic. “I’m not accustomed to sharing a bed. It feels...unaccountably intimate. I’m unable to relax.”

Charlie could not look more incredulous. “But I thought-” Her mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

“You thought what?”

“Nothing!" she said brightly, a little too brightly. It was obvious she had a notion she was not going to share. “Sooooooo it’s a personal space thing. I totally get it. Tell you what, if it makes you feel more better we can build the Great Wall of Down Pillows between us.”

He considered the idea. “Agreed.” Thankfully the B&B appeared to hold a firm belief that a dozen pillows was a reasonable number for a single bed, thus the barrier was erected. 

Several hours later Castiel’s phone chimed and his eyes snapped open. He lifted his hand to silence it but found it trapped. After a split second of consternation he realized he was not bound by a ghostly presence but instead by Charlie’s arm over his. He blinked then lifted his head to find himself on the opposite side of the bed from where he’d started. He was half sprawled over her and there appeared to be a small puddle of his drool on her t-shirt.

The redhead was awake and grinning at him. “Someone’s a closet snuggler.”

“I changed my mind. I don’t like you.”

Charlie was stronger than she looked, as he learned when she quickly rolled to dump him onto the floor quite unceremoniously.

She leaned over the bed with a self satisfied smile as her fingers worked to tie her hair up in a messy bun. “Ready to find what is probably a very sentimental and cherished Einarsson heirloom and callously destroy it?”

Castiel glared up at her as he rubbed his tailbone. “For that you owe me breakfast.”

“As long as it’s not the house we’re burning down, you’re on. The menu card says they’re serving crepes starting at 7.”

A few hours later they sat down for breakfast with matching shiners, one split lip and a sprained elbow, courtesy of a less than genial spirit that did not appreciate its wedding photo going into the fireplace. The hunters’ appearance provoked concerned looks from the other couples staying at the B&B.

It did little to stifle their appetite; the crepes were very good, after all.


	17. One Bourbon, two shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back again with an update! Looks like I'm able to crank these out about once every 2-3 weeks comfortably so I hope to stick to that schedule. But don't shoot me if I don't, I have 2 cosplay competitions coming up with 2 new outfits to build woohoo!
> 
> Soooo, just a little bit more Cas and Charlie, since everyone needs more of that in their life, then we're moving on!
> 
> Also, I have no beta so all mistakes are mine! I'll fix them later!
> 
> P.S. I realized waaaay too late Overwatch came out a few years later than the timeline in this story, but oh well, prerogative of the author to fudge many things. Plus I don't play video games and it was the only one I knew anything about!

Once breakfast was over the two hunters checked out of the B&B, leaving an envelope with a few hundred dollars to pay for some of the minor damages to the building, especially a deep gouge hole in the wall of one hallway where Charlie had swung an iron fireplace poker to dissipate the spirit when it attempted to throttle the former angel. 

When they returned to Charlie’s hotel room Castiel started to sort through his duffel, shoving his grave dirt covered clothes into a garbage bag, as he repacked for the drive to Sioux Falls. 

Charlie watched him speculatively for a few minutes before saying, “The guys need you on a big case, huh?”

“Not really. Sam texted a little while ago to tell me they found the skinwalker and the McCurdy cousins were in town, so it appears they have it well in hand.” He eyed the shotgun he’d swiped from Dean a little wistfully; he’d not had a chance to use it yet. 

“Sooooo there’s no pants-on-fire urgent reason to book it this second, right?” Charlie perched on the end of her bed, looking at little eager.

The ex-angel paused in the middle of refolding his cheap FBI suit. “I suppose not, I simply assumed-”

“Then you assumed wrong! We should totally hang!” She paused, reigning in her expression. “I mean, if you want to?” He’d met the woman only two days earlier, but Castiel knew the shy manner with which she played with the end of her ponytail was entirely feigned, and she knew exactly what he’d say.

He eyed her for a moment before he put down the tie he’d been rolling up. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Besides, I’d like to learn more about your digital archive proposal, and how I can start adding the bunker’s resources to it.”

“Awesome.” The redhead fist pumped. “And we will totally get to that, but there’s something I wanna do first.” She held up a hand in a placating gesture. “You may not like it at first but just trust me, okay? ”

He eyed her warily and nodded with an obvious show of skepticism.

A few hours later, Castiel was swearing at the woman, “Damnit, Charlie, where are you?? I’m hit!” He peered around a wall and he cursed as a shot whizzed past his head. He ducked back behind his barricade and groaned, his vitals slipping into the red the longer he waited for backup. “And pinned down!”

“Give me a fricking minute! I’m weak on attack maps and everyone's screaming for me!” She yelled back, even though they were sitting mere inches from each other on the floor in front of the tv.

“This wouldn’t be happening if I were allowed to play the tank! I wanted Winston!”

“You can’t play Winston every time, it’s boring!” She leaned into him hard, her elbow digging into his side. “You’re so much more effective as Hanzo!’

He retaliated by reaching over in an attempt to knock the controller out her hand. “Just because I’m a good sniper in real life doesn’t mean I have to play one in Overwatch! Heal me already!”

“Hey!” she shrieked and jumped up onto the bed in an effort to keep her controller safe. “Just for that!” Her Mercy flew in the opposite direction of where Castiel’s digital avatar was trying to hold a choke point while taking heavy fire.

“Charlie! Don-” He groaned when Hanzo died not at all gloriously onscreen. “So much for being effective.” He pulled the headset off so he didn’t have to hear the rest of her team jeering him for making such a noob mistake as cheesing off the healer. 

Despite his aggrieved tone he smiled a little as he looked up from his seat on the floor at the redhead bouncing on the bed as she leaned this way and that, crouched, and raised her controller over her head as though her gyrations would enhance her character’s performance on the digital field of battle. When the round was over, someone on the other team scoring play of the game, she flopped belly down on the mattress with her arms hanging over the side.

“Maybe you should play Mercy next round, learn not how awesome it is to have half a dozen players whining in your ear for healing the whole game.” 

“I think I will pass, it sounds very annoying.” 

When he’d had the ability to heal others it was not something he offered freely or frequently. While he would willingly heal the Winchesters, and others, if the injuries were dire he’d learned that sometimes it was permissible to let someone experienced the consequences of a dangerously foolhardy action for a while longer. Lessons needed to be taught. Like when he beat the unholy crap out of Dean for attempting to become the Michael Sword.

He missed healing, almost as much as he missed flying. When he healed someone it was the purest act of devotion he could perform for his Father’s creation. While the heat of battle was exciting, the rush of victory heady, angels were not simply God’s most fearsome weapon, the proverbial hammer he’d been called many years ago. He and his brethren had been blessed with other gifts so as to help keep balance on earth, to supplemental human weakness with divine assistance and succor. It was service in its simplest, most altruistic form, and Castiel worked very hard not to dwell on the loss of this ability, among many others, for too long lest an very unpleasant tightness grip his throat and make it hard to breath.

Like right now. Damnit, sometimes these thoughts snuck up on him and caught him off guard. 

He pushed up from the floor and muttered he needed the restroom. He allowed himself less than 2 minutes collect himself, lest his sudden turn of mood be noticed or that he was taking too long in the bathroom. Sam pointed out doing that usually meant he needed more roughage in his diet. 

When he emerged, wiping his wet hands down his t-shirt, Charlie dropped her controller on the mattress and sat upon in, legs crossed indian-style. “You picked that up really fast, faster than most people, so don’t kick your own ass too much. Alrighty,” she tapped a finger to her chin, her face screwed up in an exaggerated expression of concentration. 

“Video games, we’re going to go see Amazing Spider-man 2 this afternoon, what else what else what else is missing from your crash course in having good, clean, non-hunting fun. Ah!” She snapped her fingers. “We definitely gotta go out for drinks. I found a club the next town over, the online reviews are promising sooooo...dancing?” She raised an eyebrow at him and he quirked one right back.

“I don’t dance,” he said flatly in a voice that brooked zero argument. “But I’ll be happy to join you for a couple of drinks.” Sam had told him it was a good idea, after all.

Several hours later they were in Charlie’s car complaining to each other in the car how truly terrible the movie was, although Castiel had not seen any of the others. He didn’t need to in order to understand that this movie had too many villains, all of which were underdeveloped, and Peter Parker was a terrible boyfriend. But Charlie assured him it was okay to enjoy the special effects and fight scenes, in spite of the terrible dialogue, as she pulled into a parking spot outside a bar cleverly named Q-Tee. 

A quick survey of the patrons confirmed the accuracy of the name, there were quite a few aesthetically pleasing patrons. This place was cleaner than the bars he usually frequented with the Winchesters. The music was also a departure. Loud enough they had to raise their voices and lean in close to be heard and with a deep bass line that resonated in his chest with a thump. After a few minutes he caught himself nodding his head in time and stopped immediately. While the tempo was infectious, he didn’t dance. Everyone else was more than welcome to do so. The patrons appeared to be enjoying themselves, given how animatedly they jostled around the dance floor, bumping into each other. 

Castiel leaned against the bar as Charlie eyed the bartenders in an effort to get their attention. After failing to do so with a few hand waves the redhead tugged the neck of her tank top lower then, to Castiel’s amusement, leaned over the wooden bartop a great deal more than was necessary, clearly putting her cleavage on display. That resulted in a blonde with a flattering short haircut swerving away from a man she was about to serve and beelining it for Charlie. Castiel had to give it to the female hunter, her “gaydar” as she called it, was quite accurate. There was no mistaking the blonde’s interest as she didn’t bother to hide the lingering and appreciative look she gave Charlie’s chest, and they soon had drinks in hand.

“You’re very good at that,” the ex-angel noted, accepting the offer to tap his glass of bourbon against her electric blue drink.

“Pfft, hardly. Shooting fish in a barrel here.” She played with her straw as she surveyed the crowd, bouncing on the balls of her feet to the beat.

He’d been on earth long enough to have finally become familiar with the most common colloquialisms. Years ago he would have pointed out the lack of fish and barrels in this establishment, but now he looked around the club with different eyes, since Charlie had pointed out in this locale it was ridiculously easy to find another non-heterosexual woman.

Now that he took a little closer look at the dance floor and noted the number of shirtless men outnumbered those still wearing tops, and the dancers weren’t jostling each other but grinding.

“This is a gay bar.”

“Yup! According to Yelp best one in Southeastern Nebraska. Only one too, but beggars can’t be choosers.” Her elbow nudged him in the ribs as another attractive woman passed by in shorts so small Castiel was certain they could pass for underwear. He worked quite hard not to stare.

It was a little harder not to do so when a dark haired man with equally dark eyes slid past him with a polite, “Excuse me.” His hand lingered on Castiel’s arm in a way that could not at all be construed as accidental. The other man glanced over his shoulder and his mouth tilted up in a coy smile when he caught the ex-angel’s eyes still on him.

Castiel whipped his head back around to look down at Charlie, and there was that impish smirk once more. The one that reminded him a bit too much of Gabriel. Fortunately, he was no longer the angel that stammered at a sex worker in that long-ago den of iniquity while Dean tried and failed not to choke on his own laughter. 

He’d been down here long enough, been human long enough, and had acquired a variety of experiences, albeit this was a new one, that he was easily able to summon up an entirely blase expression and deny Charlie a shocked expression for her amusement. “Well, at least the music is good. Although this bourbon is dreadful.”

Charlie laughed and punched him lightly in the arm. “Folks don’t come here for quality drinks, dingus! Hey, you should use that ‘utterly indifferent to sexual orientation’ line,” she said, her voice attempting to drop a register in mimicry of the ex-angel. “You could pull any bi or pan in here with that and those baby blues! But only if you stop frowning.” An index finger poked the corner of his mouth, and he batted her hand away.

“I am indifferent to the sexual orientation of **others** , Charlie.”

That gave her pause, and he took the opportunity to edge them away from the bar as more people were pressing against them in attempts to get drinks. He found a slightly less deafening area out of the direct blast zone of the speakers, and they leaned against a pillar, watching the crowd and the dance floor. 

“So what does that mean?” Charlie didn’t sound judgemental or displeased, more curious than anything. 

Castiel took a swallow of the middling bourbon, buying himself a few moments before offering, “It’s not something I’ve given much thought to.” It was not a lie, he was a terrible liar. He truly had worked quite hard not to allow his thoughts to dwell on this particular topic too often. He didn't succeed 100% of the time, but to err is human.

He didn’t know much, but he knew that way danger lay. Every time his body tipped him off to the underlying draw he felt towards...someone he backed away, drowning it with distance and sometimes booze. It wasn’t entirely effective, as his thoughts sometimes skewed drunkenly into fantasy before he could stop himself. And sometimes he didn’t try. The wash of guilt afterwards was always unwelcome, but it didn’t stop him from sometimes losing himself in the thought of what another’s skin would feel against his. 

Charlie’s mouth pursed in a moue around her straw as she sipped, looking thoughtful. “Okay, fair enough. You’ve only been human for like, a year, so before that you, what? Angels don’t do the do? They don’t feel desire or anything like that?”

He thought back on Gabriel and Balthazar. “Not at all. Some of my brothers were emphatic fans of fornication. As long as a nephilim wasn’t created it was simply frowned upon by some and and ignored by others. It was seen as lowly.” He gave her an apologetic look. “To say some angels could be ‘high and mighty’-” he made finger quotes “-about engaging in such indulgences is an understatement. But it did occur.” 

“But not with you.”

He couldn’t stop his small squirm, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfit.

Charlie’s face broke into a broad grin but she stifled it quickly when the ex-angel turned a dour look on her. “Quit scowling, you can’t blame me for asking. Hey, you’re human now, you might have some human urges aaaaand-” she gave him an appraising look “-not sure what to do with them, amirite?”

Castiel could not have sounded more sour when he responded with a grumbly, “Yes.” Damn the woman for being so perceptive.

“Oh, stop looking like getting hot and bothered for someone is the end of the world. From what I heard, you’ve actually faced down the end of the world, so you should know this isn’t it.” She put a finger under the bottom of his glass and tipped it, urging him to drink it. Yes, he should. He should drink a lot more to deal with this conversation.

Once his crappy bourbon and Charlie’s colorful glass were both drained they made their way through the throng to another bar on the other side of the dance floor, one less crowded. This time Charlie ordered two Lemon Drop shots for each of them. 

“Ok so you lick iittttt,”: Charlie drawled as she dragged her tongue over the back of her hand, swiping up the sugar. “Slam it!” She and Castiel threw their shots back. “‘Suck it!” They grinned at each other past the lemon wedges in their mouths. 

Although he usually disliked things that were too tart Lemon Drops might be the exception. The shots were quickly followed up with 2 more specialty cocktails, Charlie insisting he should at least try a Sex on the Beach before turning his nose up at it. It’s wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t half good either, but it was potent and that was what truly mattered.

Castiel felt a great deal more relaxed now, alcohol was excellent that way, and neglected to stop his head from bobbing to the music. Nor did he keep his eyes from wandering. There were so many aesthetically pleasing people in here. All here to see and be seen, to look he and his companion over with as equal frankness as they received. He was not accustomed to the sensation, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He even returned a small smile directed at him by a man with sandy hair with one of his own before he ducked his head.

Charlie, however, was the proverbial dog with a bone, and once they were again leaning against a pillar she resumed the conversation.

“So is this another one of those things you find ‘unaccountably intimate-’” He couldn’t help but huff in amusement at her finger quotes and second poor attempt at imitating his voice. “-and you’re just going to be a monk or what?”

He couldn’t fault her for her curiosity. And she honestly seemed interested in his answer and not ready to mock him.

“I...I wouldn’t say that.” he cleared his throat, “I’m not unacquainted with desire.” There, he actually said it properly. Doing so aloud made it sound more real, somehow. That this wasn’t something locked up in the privacy of his mind but now let loose into the world. 

“So there is someone! C’mon, spill, I require details. Girl? Guy? Someone I know?” She turned her full attention to him, although it appeared a bit of a challenge given the way a leggy brunette server was bending over in front of them to drop drinks at a table.

He sighed, his thoughts sliding in a particular direction. To someone. The moment they alighted on a face he determinedly wrenched them back into line. They landed on another and the corner of his mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile before it slipped away again. “It would be fair to say I’ve found certain individuals intriguing. That I’ve, on occasion, thought about how pleasant it might be to engage in certain physical acts with them.” 

Although it was said with as much bland and innocuous language as he could dredge up, he felt a flush crawl up his cheeks and was grateful the club wasn’t more brightly lit. Millennia as an angel spent watching humanity, observing countless acts of coitus, and now that he was human he hedged at giving voice to his own growing interest in, and desire for, sex.

“Wow, for a guy Dean warned me is the world’s worst liar, you are amazingly cagey. C’moooooon.” Charlie tugged on his arm playfully. “No judgement. This is a judgement-free zone. Obviously.” 

He shifted his weight to his other foot and glanced out over the crowd before speaking. “There was a demon. Meg. She was repulsive at first. But, over time, after several encounters, we spent a significant amount of time together when I was experiencing certain difficulties...” That was a the most banal way he could think to gloss over his intensely delusional state after he took Sam's madness and spent months in that mental hospital, the demon his beautiful, thorny nurse. 

“After that I no longer found her an abomination. In fact, her vessel was quite attractive. In time, even her true face become less repellent. Had she not been killed by the King of Hell I’m confident we would have had sex. It probably would have been enjoyable. And vigorous.” He strongly suspected furniture would not have simply been moved but broken. 

Yes, he’d definitely thought about that. Quite a few times. It was a shame she’d died, and not only because he’d missed out on the opportunity to commit some truly spectacular blasphemy. 

Meg had been kind to him, in her charmingly acidic way, after a while. And they’d shared some moments he could see, in retrospect, were charged with a certain dark ardor. He missed her in a detached way. A remnant of his former life. It was behind him, and he didn’t enjoy looking back. His rearview mirror was littered with enough corpses.

“Wow. Not at all the answer I expecting but interesting! So a demon, huh? You really are a rebel.” 

“As I said, it matters not what vessel the soul occupies. In Meg’s case perhaps not even the soul itself. She was intriguing and an excellent kisser.” Not that he had a basis for comparison, but it had been quite enjoyable. She’d been incredibly responsive when he reciprocated; even now he could recall the silky slide of her dark hair through his fingers. She’d tasted of sulphur and smoke. 

He wondered how others tasted.

“Anyone else?”

Something in Charlie’s voice contained that way too innocent note that made him suspicious. But 4 drinks in he was a little less guarded, and she was very kind. And also a little distracted making eyes at a blonde nearby even as she spoke at the ex-angel.

“I have an appreciation for aesthetic appeal of a few people.” Vague was good, vague was excellent. It was also helpful that the dark haired man with the dark eyes walked past him again at that moment and their gaze connected once more. 

Charlie watched that interaction for a moment then seized the opportunity to take one step to the left and plant herself in front of the man. “Hi, I’m Charlie, that’s Cas.” She pointed at the wide-eyed ex-angel. “He’s shy and utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.”

Before he knew it he was on the edge of the dance floor, Charlie and her blonde on one side of him and the man, whose name he didn't catch over the music, on the other.

“Shy, huh?”

The former angel nodded quickly, seizing upon the opportunity to stay mute,. Perhaps that would allow him to escape this situation with only a bruise to his ego. He’d gotten better at interacting with hunters and assorted law enforcement; his social skills with unknown civilians still resided in the realm of the theoretical. 

Hands drifted up, skimming his biceps and he started minutely when goosebumps trailed in their wake. “Not much of a talker?” 

He shook his head. Perfect, provide a dearth of conversation, and he'd been seen as dull or boring and be allowed to escape. The man would see there’s no point to Castiel being here with all these gyrating people. He could go back to holding up that pillar with his back and simply watching. 

It would be educational. He’d learn a bit more about how humans flirt and socialize. A reconnaissance mission, scouting if you will, before he attempted it again.

No such luck. It turns out his companion wasn’t at all put off. Languid eyes drifted over the ex-angel’s face and somehow felt heavy as a touch; Castiel felt an uptick in his heartbeat at being on the receiving end of such a hungry look.

“Lucky for you I don’t wanna talk.”

One song bled into another, the beat indistinguishable but relentless, building until it seemed the enter structure might vibrate with it. Or perhaps it was just one intoxicated former celestial being who was increasingly overstimulated by the relentless grind he found himself drawn into.

_A strong warm back pressed to his front._

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_Heat bleeding through thin layers._

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_Hunting rough hands drawn down to rest on solid hips._

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_A rock back into him, a roll away, a sinuous wave of motion._

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_Hair tickling his nose, a brief whiff of cologne._

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_The eventual sting of sweat falling into his eyes._

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_A hand sifting into his hair, gripping it._

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_The salt tang of sweat on his tongue, sampled from another’s skin._

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_His heartbeat competed with the driving bass._

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_A frisson of pleasure starting low, from barely unexplored depths._

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_Rising with each wave, each drag of the tide of bodies, of one body._

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_Peaking and cresting, spilling over._

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_His breathing ragged as he tried to keep his head above it all._

“What the fuck!?” Castiel blinked up from where he’d landed on his ass on the sticky floor from an abrupt shove.

“You just-! You can’t just-!” There a was a verb lacking here, and his dancing partner seemed incapable of locating the right one. “Jesus, man, at least buy me a drink first! Gross!” The brunette stalked off, pausing to snipe something at Charlie who had frozen mid-step. Her head swivelled from Castiel to the guy storming away, back to Castiel, then back to the guy who was now gesticulating forcefully to someone in a black shirt with the word “SECURITY” blazoned on it in large white letters.

“Oops, party foul!” Charlie abandoned her own dance partner, leaving the women to continue gyrating wildly, unaware she was now flying solo, and grabbed Castiel’s arm. “Time to go!”

He stumbled to his feet, unable to do anything but obey given the strength of her grip, and they plunged into the thick of the crowd to avoid the bouncers. Charlie spotted the gleaming red exit sign. “There!” Just before they reached the door she let go of his arm, flung both her hands out, and snatched two electric green cocktails from a passing server’s tray.

They tumbled into the alley, the redhead holding their prizes in front of her as they ran around the side of the building and crouched behind a dumpster just as the back door banged open once more.

They shushed each other but it appeared they were in no danger of being detected. Once the bouncers determined they’d left the establishment their interest in the drink stealing redhead and the guy who’d rubbed one out against someone’s ass on the dance floor was forgotten. Just another night at the club.

Charlie peaked around the edge of the dumpster then leaned back with a sigh of relief. “I haven’t been chased out of a club in ages.” She pushed one of the drinks to Castiel. “Cheers.”

He took it and sipped, grimacing at the taste, whatever it was it was foul. But still alcoholic so he took another swallow then sighed. “My apologies. I think I may have overstepped with...whatever his name was.”

Charlie looked at him for a long moment, her brown eyes huge as they dropped down to stare at his jeans. Castiel quickly tugged the hem of his shirt lower to cover his groin. The redhead's sudden howl of laughter rocked him back on already unsteady feet.

He flapped a hand at her and hissed “Shhhhh!” as he looked around warily. But they were alone in the alley, besides the cat nosing through the garbage a few feet away. 

Charlie gasped and sucked in ragged breaths between giggles, waving her drink free hand in front of her face as though fanning herself. It took a good minute of gesticulating and a few hiccups before she drew herself up straight and took a long, steadying breath.

Then she promptly burst into hysterical laughter all over again, this time leaning against the side of the dumpster to hold herself up. Just for that Castiel took her drink away and downed it in 2 swallows.

“Hey! That was my ill gotten good!” She swiped at the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she pushed off the dumpster and tried to take the now empty glass from him, but he simply held it up high over his head and out of her reach.

“Too bad, I drank it.”

Thankfully, she wasn’t the grudge holding type and instead linked her arm with his to walk out the opposite end of the alley, already in search of another bar. He tossed the glass over his shoulder without thinking and winced at the crack of glass shattering on the concrete which made Charlie giggle once more.

By the time they made it back to the hotel room it was very late, or very early depending on one’s perspective, and collapsed. More accurately, Castiel fell face first onto the nearest bed and promptly passed out while Charlie was dragged down with him, too wobbly to extricate herself or protest too strongly.

Both of them were awakened much too soon for their taste by Castiel’s cell phone blaring Gaga’s “Poker Face” and he nearly cracked the screen bringing a hand down on it too hard.

“‘Lo,” he rasped. A muffled whimper came from somewhere, he didn’t know where exactly as the idea of raising his head was too painful to contemplate, much less perform. He assumed it was Charlie, hopefully in an equal amount of pain because this was all her fault.

“Cas! Morning!” Sam’s too chipper voice sounded down the line and, in this moment, Castiel missed his ability to smite more than ever. Sam Winchester truly was a monster.

The inarticulate grumble he made in response apparently contained a wealth of information, as Sam replied, “Went out with Charlie, huh? Been there, it’s a rite of passage. If you’re still breathing you passed.”

“Sam,” he growled testily then brought a hand up to rub at his face. “What the hell do you want?”

Charlie hissed, “The light. It burns.” He reached out to blindly pat her consolingly, but the redhead hunter wriggled away from him and under the covers.

“Just wondering when you were going head this way.” The hunter lowered his voice as though he didn’t wish to be heard. “Sorry, Dean made me ask but didn’t want you to know it was him. This is some junior high shit, I know.”

Castiel didn’t even pretend to understand what on earth Sam was talking about regarding schools. “Ugh fine,” he groaned, and chose to ignore his friend’s laughter in his ear. “I’m south of Lincoln, Nebraska, I could be there in about 4 hours.” His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. “Or six. I need to eat something. And shower.” He finally lifted his head. “And locate my clothes.” 

He didn’t recall undressing for bed last night, or half undressing as his jeans were gone but somehow one shoe was still on his foot, and he was wearing a different shirt than the one he had gone out in. Come to think of it this wasn’t a shirt he owned, nor was it Charlie’s. He decided to let the blank portions of the previous night remain a mystery. He didn’t remember much after the third bar, except something called body shots he and Charlie both took off the flat stomach of a gamine brunette with a tattoo of a butterfly below her navel.

“Yeah, that sounds like a night out with Charlie. Hope you had fun. See you in 6 hours then. C’mon up to Jody’s place. And I want to hear how your case went.”

“Very well,” the ex-angel responded before dropping the phone back onto the bed and allowing himself a few minutes to collect both his thoughts and do an inventory of discomfort. Eventually he determined that his headache wasn’t nearly as bad as the New Orleans hangover, but his stomach was in absolute revolt from the variety of fruity liquor drinks. No country fried steak today, the very notion made something acidic rise in his throat.

Two hours and a lot of slow movement, dry toast, strong coffee, and a very, very, very long shower he and Charlie said their goodbyes in the parking lot. 

“Don’t be a stranger, Cas,” the redhead chided as she went in for a hug. This time he returned it easily.

“I won’t. It was a genuine pleasure working with you.” He looked down at her with only a half stern expression. “I’m reserving judgement on the bar crawl.”

She didn’t look at all abashed but rather proud of getting him completely obliterated and actually dancing, albeit with unexpected consequences for the poor guy who had the bad luck to be the ex-angel’s first frottage. 

“Sorry not sorry. Now,” she brandished a thick envelope, tapping him on the chest with it. “As promised, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, the Bureau of Investigation for half a dozen of your favorite Midwestern states, and a gift certificate to GameStop.”

His eyebrow raised at the last one. “You’re going to need it after you open the care package I’m sending to your PO Box next week. I’m gonna need my tank.” She beamed sunnily up at him. “Also I am so getting you into my WoW guild, don’t even try to fight it, it’s happening.” He held up his hands in surrender, well aware arguing was pointless. Plus he wanted to learn more video games; they were a great deal of mindless fun.

“I expect you to come visit Lebanon,” he responded. “And instruct me properly.”

“You betcha. See ya, Cas.”

Giving into the strong swell of affection he had quickly developed for the woman, the ex-angel pressed his lips fleetingly to her forehead before he opened the door to his Thunderbird and settled in the driver’s seat. In his rearview he saw the redhead give the Vulcan sign of “live long and prosper.” He hoped to see her again soon.

Once the green Ford turned the corner and disappeared out of sight, Charlie quickly hurried to her room to start taking down her gear. It was time to move on to the next town; she’d received a nudge from Garth Fitzgerald in her inbox this morning that something hinky was happening in Vermont and that was a couple days driving, so she needed to get a move on.

Once her computers and monitors were safely packed away in blanket cushioned boxes and Tetris’ed into her Gremlin she plunked into the driver’s seat and opened up messages on her phone, quickly navigating to the one-on-one she had with Sam. 

Charlie: _Tell nanny Winchester his baby boy is on his way so he can calm down._

Sam: _Thanks, he was okay the last couple of days but this morning he started bitching about how long Cas was taking._

Charlie: _Someone should tell Dean stalking is not sexy._

Sam: _Not gonna be me. I like my nose unbroken._

Charlie: _Cas doesn’t need a babysitter, Sam. He’s a big boy. Exhibit A._

She attached a video file to the last message and waited for it to upload then waited a little longer to see Sam’s reaction.

Thank god Dean wasn’t around when Sam opened that attachment; the elder Winchester was outside saying goodbye to the McCurdy cousins who were heading back to Provo now that the skinwalker was dead.

Sam quickly thumbed the volume on his phone down when tinny techno music blared through the small speaker. Sam’s eyes widened at the jumpy video image of Castiel, former Angel of the Lord and celestial stick in the mud, getting extremely cosy with a **guy** on a **dance floor**. 

He didn’t know if he should be impressed or completely freaked out at the image of his friend licking a stripe up that dude’s neck, then tipping his own head back when his hair got tugged. Actually Castiel wasn’t that bad a dancer. If you could call freaking on someone dancing.

Okay. So Castiel wasn't going to spend his human life celibate, clearly. Sam hadn’t thought much about this particular aspect of his friend’s new humanity. Now he wished he didn’t have to. And he absolutely did not want to think about Dean’s reaction to this video. 

Sam: _Please tell me you haven’t sent this to Dean._

Charlie: _Not yet. Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?_

The message was followed by a winky emoji.

Shit. 

Sam had hoped, hell he’d even prayed, he imagined the weird tension between his brother and Castiel. The younger Winchester had carefully tip-toed around this particular denial for years now, long enough it had become habit to not even blink as how intense the two were around each other. And that was saying something, considering how fierce they were separately.

It had totally gotten worse since Castiel became human and moved into the bunker. Sam had nearly convinced himself Dean’s hovering was simple concern for Castiel’s safety and his brother's innate control-freak tendencies when it came to family.

But nope, Charlie had picked it up too. And she hadn’t even seen the two of them together, standing weirdly close, well within each other’s personal space bubble. And the staring, dear God, the way too long eye contact he’d been pretending he didn’t see for years. She hadn’t seen the barf-worthy expression on Dean’s face the other day when Castiel called and woke him up; his brother had stumbled into the kitchen in a good mood. Before coffee. It was weird, and that was saying something considering their lives.

Of course, his brother was just as deep in denial and then some; Sam didn’t need to be a genius to figure that out. Dean was very touchy about Castiel and their unusual friendship, always had been, but since the angel’s fall the elder Winchester was more defensive than ever, prickling at Sam’s lightest jokes.

Then his brother turned around and used this really weird tone when on the phone with Castiel. Sometimes it was pissy; hell, usually it was pissy. But even when it was there was this pitch in Dean’s voice lately that made Sam clear his throat and refocus his attention on the paper, his laptop, driving, whatever the hell it was he was doing at the time so it didn’t look like he was listening.

Because somehow even a gruff reminder for Castiel to pay attention to stop signs or clean his guns sounded tender. No. That was not something Sam could deal with. No way, no how. He was not equipped to deal with anyone’s impending crisis of orientation. And if anyone was going to turn this into a crisis, it was his brother.

So yeah, no showing Dean videos of Castiel’s position on the sexual spectrum. Or any position. And definitely no showing him the second video clip Charlie just sent of her and Castiel both taking body shots off some woman laying on a bartop! Sam could have easily lived the rest of his life happily not knowing how a fallen angel looked when tonguing someone’s bellybutton.

“God, strike me blind, please,” he muttered as he scowled at the series of insinuating emojis Charlie filled his screen with.

Sam knew his brother, despite being a prick to Castiel a lot, had put the former angel on some sort of pedestal. Despite Dean’s raunchy teasing, Sam could tell Dean thought of Castiel as still “pure”, in some stupid old-fashioned way. He had, after all, had to literally drag Dean back to the car when they’d mistakenly assumed Tamara was hitting on Castiel.

Nope, he was not going to get involved in that. The two growns up had to figure that shiton their own. Or rather his immature brother and a fallen angel who once upon a time made out with a demon in the middle of running for their lives from hellhounds.

Good luck to the two of them. Sam was going to duck and cover and wait it out. 

And there was no way in hell he was going to share any of that with Charlie.

Sam: _Yes, because we are going to be adults and stay the hell out of THAT._

Charlie: _What THAT?_

Again with the stupid winking emojis.

Sam: _You know what that!_

Charlie: _You mean that fact that they’re in luuuuuuuuurve? Or at least wanna bone?_

Sam groaned when that text was followed by eggplants, water droplets, and kissy symbols.

Sam: _I hate you so much right now._

Charlie: _I know, love you too._

Sam rolled his eyes. Then he replayed the videos because, seriously, he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Yes, he regretted it just as much upon second viewing, but it was like watching a car crash; he couldn’t look away. At least the body shot lady was hot.

“The hell are you watching?” Dean said from behind him.

Only years of being trained not to jump a foot in the air at unexpected noises kept Sam from flinching in surprise. “So get this. Garth sent me this hilarious skit from Funny or Die, you gotta l-”

“Pass!” Dean barked as he quickly walked away.

Smirking, Sam stowed his phone in his back pocket. His brother was so predictable sometimes. “Charlie let me know Cas is on his way. Should be here in a few hours.”

A smile crossed Dean’s lips and, since the younger Winchester now had unfortunately confirmed knowledge he wasn’t seeing things, Sam died a little in side at how freakily happy it was. Then it seemed like Dean realized he was grinning like a dope, and his features rearranged themselves into something a little more stern. Cue more internal death throes. This was going to go pear shaped sooner or later.

“Well, let him know to change directions because Ed just kicked us a case in Illinois.”

“Ed? Wait, Ed Zeddmore? The fricking Ghostfacer?”

Dean sighed and nodded. “One and the same. This time he had the sense to realize he was dealing with a real case. Decided to give us a call. Saddle up, Sammy, and tell Cas to meet us in Mount Pulaski, half an hour northwest of Decatur.”

“On it.” Sam followed his brother to their room, throwing his shit into his bag with one hand while sending Castiel instructions and the address Dean passed along.

Late afternoon, Castiel pulled the Thunderbird up to the curb, and noted the Impala was nowhere to be seen. Presumably brothers were probably out on an errand and would be back soon. He’d barely stepped out of the car when he was greeted in a way he didn’t at all expect.

“Castiel? What are you doing here?”

Taken aback, he paused, one foot still in the floorboard, and looked over the hood over the car at Sheriff Mills. “Sam didn’t tell you I was coming? My case in Nebraska wrapped yesterday.”

Jody’s eyes widened. “Sam and Dean left hours ago for Illinois. Didn’t they call you?”

Castiel grimaced and ducked back into the car, fishing through his coat to extricate his cell phone. He held it up with a frown as he pressed the screen and received no response. “Shit, it’s dead. I neglected to charge it since last night. Dean’s going to kill me.”

Jody’s face appeared in the passenger window. “Hardly,” she laughed, “Although, he’ll bitch a little. C’mon in, charge your phone for a bit and let me get you something to eat before you get back on the road.” Before he could protest the Sheriff had already turned on her heel and was walking back to her front porch a dishtowel tossed over her shoulder. “Not taking no for an answer, Castiel.”

Well, that decided that. He dutifully followed her with his phone, charger, and backup power cell that also needed replenishing. He was absolutely certain he was going to get an earful from Dean when he called to inform the hunter he would be hours later than expected.

He followed Jody into the kitchen and gratefully plugged his phone in and sighed when it lit up and started chiming annoyingly. There were no less than 5 message in 5 hours, 2 from Sam and 3 from Dean. The last one was in all capital letters, a clear forewarning of the attitude he would be greeted with when he mustered up the courage to return the calls.

“Yeah, I make that face too. Damn cell phones, can’t decide if they’re the best or worst thing to happen to hunting,” an unfamiliar voice said.

Castiel glanced up, his eyes raking over the man leaning against the doorjamb in inspection, assessing him automatically. Brown hair, a full beard, early to mid-40s, work roughened hands, pronounced crows’ feet around the eyes, a bowie knife tucked into a leather sheath attached to his belt, white scars on his knuckles, anti-possession tattoo peeking out from under the left sleeve of the man’s blue t-shirt.

“Castiel, Asa. He’s...an old friend of mine. I feel like I’ve got a revolving door because he showed up not an hour after the boys left,” Jody flapped her dishtowel at Asa when he winked at her. She turned back to the stove, dipping a spoon into a pot and making a tutting noise as she reached into the spice rack.

The man stuck his hand out as he crossed the room. “Asa Fox. You’re the guy working with the Winchesters.” That wasn’t a question.

Castiel met his hand easily, returning the firm grip and nodded, unwilling to share any information without getting some sort of indication from Jody. He glanced in her direction. 

“I didn’t say anything, didn’t even know you were still coming. Guess your reputation precedes you. As a hunter.” The brief pause before the last words told Castiel all he needed to know; no angel talk in front of this man. But he was a hunter and therefore an ally until proven otherwise.

“The Seveaus were singing your praises when I ran into them a few weeks back in Savannah. Heard you held your own with those swamp rats. No mean feat.” Castiel was aware he was likewise being assessed but not in an unfriendly way.

“It was a challenging job, but the two survivors were worth it.”

Asa nodded once in acknowledgement. “Also heard you’re a fair hand at scrying. That so?”

Castiel took the beer passed to him by Jody and occupied a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m well versed in locator spells and other incantations of that sort.” More than well versed, he’d practically swallowed the Men of Letters library, adding to his already formidable personal knowledge of spellcraft. He’d not had many opportunities to use it since he fell human, many of the hunting jobs requiring more muscle than anything. He’d appreciate the chance to stretch himself a bit, see if any of his recently acquired knowledge enhanced his casting ability.

Castiel rested an elbow on the formica table and leaned in the smallest bit, intrigued. “What did you have in mind?”

“Got a coven of witches on my radar, and that is not my area of expertise. Could use a guy with a background in spellwork.”

Castiel gave Jody a warm look when she offered to call Sam and Dean for him as he followed Asa to Montana. Perhaps he was taking the coward’s way out. His last conversation with Dean had been so pleasant; he’d prefer the next one not involve the hunuter chewing him out like a wayward teenager not following his rules. He was an adult, a hunter, and perfectly capable of doing jobs on his own. He didn’t need Dean’s permission.

He would have appreciated it, however. A vote of confidence from his friend would mean a great deal to him. However, he knew such a thing must be earned from the elder Winchester, it was never easily given. As he’d planned from the start of his human existence, his hunter training, Castiel would prove himself useful, capable, formidable even. Then perhaps Dean would see him as his equal and not his charge. 

Three hours into the drive, following Asa’s camper bed Chevy truck, his phone charged phone rang. He felt a twinge of guilt when he saw Dean’s name flash on the screen and decided to let it go to voicemail. A minute later he checked the message and his guilt doubled as he listened to his friend’s voice.

“Cas, I dunno why you’re not picking up and Jody has to call us to let us know you took another case. But if it’s because I did something or you're ticked at me...I...I’m sorry, man.” The gruff voice on the line cleared it’s throat and paused. “Heard you’re hunting with Asa Fox.” A low whistle sounded in the ex-angel’s ear. “He’s kinda a legend, gotta admit I’m a little jealous. So...uh...you’re probably busy or something, but if you got time gimme a call. Or don’t, if you don’t wanna...you don’t have to. Would be nice to hear how Charlie’s doing...and you. So...uh...yeah.” There was a long pause; for a moment Castiel though the message ended. “Come home soon, okay? In one piece, preferably.”

The voice told him to press 1 to delete or 2 to save. Castiel pressed 2, then placed the phone on the passenger seat and stared out the windshield, watching the tail lights of Asa’s truck ahead of him.

One more job, then he’d go home. 

Home.

He liked the sound of that. 


	18. Hey Man, Nice Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I said I did best getting up a new chapter every 2-3 week, but here I am not 6 days later with another 8,000 words! What can I say, I was inspired this week!

Dean leaned against the headboard of yet another indistinguishable highway motel and leafed through John Winchester’s journal to make a note on skinwalkers. As much as his father knew about hunting the man hadn’t been infallible, but neatly crossing out a line of of his dad’s tight script to make a correction always caused a wash of guilt.

He skipped over the pages he knew contained more than hunting notes, the ones interspersed throughout the battered leather journal that referenced Mary, Sam, or Dean. John’s fleeting observations on his family. Dean had read them more times than he could count, and few things made him feel worse than the sadness his usually reserved father somehow managed to lace into a few simple phrases.

_Dean hasn’t spoken in weeks._

__

_Had a drink as soon as the boys went down._

__

_I wake up to the smallest noise or maybe it wasn’t a noise._

The leather bound tome had become thicker over the years as Dean added pages to the back, his own contributions to the family history, such as it was. Like his father he’d sometimes jot down things that weren’t strictly job related, thoughts that crossed his mind as he wrote.

_Sam learned the hard way how to make vetala venom antidotes._

__

_Couldn’t sleep, heard Cas again real late. Think he has nightmares._

__

__

_Sometimes I miss the old days when heaven and hell were theoretical._

__

__

_Thinking about bringing Cas on Vegas week._

__

__

_Can’t believe Sam asked about getting a dog. WTF_

__

__

_Reminder: Cas hasn’t seen Star Wars. Fix that._

He added in a new note on a fresh page. 

_Cas went hunting with Asa Fox. Lucky bastard._

He chewed on his lower lip as he thought about that. It had been 4 days since Jody called to drop the news, and he’d still not heard from his friend. He disliked the radio silence, but Sam pointed out he’d already sent an apology for whatever it was he apparently did, so the ball was in Castiel’s court now. He still wasn’t sure what it was he did wrong. Or if he’d done anything. 

Sometimes Castiel was still as inscrutable as he’d been the day he nearly blew the roof off that barn and took a demon knife to the chest with a bemused expression. It could be Castiel simply didn’t think to touch base. It wasn’t like the guy was a mind reader and understood the tight knots Dean’s gut twisted itself into when another day went by and his phone didn’t ring.

Maybe the texts were a bit much. He scrolled through his messages and frowned at the handful of things he’d sent to Castiel over the last few days, with no response. 

_Having fun?_

__

__

_Sam’s tried to feed me vegetarian lasagna. I need backup._

__

__

_Check this out, Sam says it’s real. Gross._

The last text was accompanied by a picture of a shrunken head found in storage room 3F Dean had been cataloguing.

No response. Sure, none of it really required one, but looking at the string of attempts to reach out and getting nothing back made Dean feel a little pathetic.

Fuck, he hated texting anyways, stupid tiny buttons and zero ability to communicate sarcasm or that he wasn’t actually mad at Castiel when he blew up his phone with those all caps messages demanding to know where he was.

He’d only been irked Cas hadn’t confirmed he was on his way to Illinois. Dead phone, not a big deal, shit happens. Hell, Dean had done that more times than he can count, lost a few, dropped 2 in the toilet by accident, and deliberately thrown a few against a wall or on the ground in anger.

He wasn’t mad! He just wanted Cas to wrap his case and come join them, like it should be. Three amigos or some shit.

Sure, it was fine he went and worked with Charlie; Dean trusted her implicitly despite her mischievous streak, and the job was a cakewalk. But he’d have preferred Castiel take a breather before running off in another direction, this time with a hunter neither Sam nor Dean knew. At least Fox was a reputable badass and not some rookie, so Castiel had solid backup if shit got hairy. On the flip side of that same coin any job Asa Fox took one was probably a real bitch.

He could practically heard Sam’s voice, even though the man had gone to the local library to do some research. “Quit hovering, Dean, Cas can handle himself.”

He wasn’t hovering! Hell, he wasn’t even really all that worried, between Asa and Castiel whatever monster they were hunting was dead meat. He simply disliked this silence. Sure, when the guy had been an angel a few weeks or months could go by without a word, and he wouldn’t sweat it. Angels got busy, and they were a lot tougher than humans. 

It was different now, and it wasn’t at all unreasonable to want a little reassurance Castiel was kicking ass and not getting his kicked instead. 

Not like that had happened yet, his friend was turning into a hell of a hunter: tough, stubborn, insightful, fearless. Probably a little too fearless for a guy who hadn’t yet finished out a whole year mortal. Who had to consciously remind himself he wasn’t nearly invulnerable anymore.

“Screw it,” Dean muttered as he reached for a different cell phone. And screw texting. He tapped his pen on the journal page as it the line rang. To his surprise the line picked up, rather than going straight to Castiel’s voice mail. As funny as it was to hear his outgoing message, complete with the beeps of the pressed keypad and Castiel’s solemn voice explaining he was unlikely to check his voicemail as he’d probably forgotten his password again, it did get old after a while.

Maybe calling Castiel from his other OTHER phone was cheating, if the guy really was avoiding him.

“Hello, Dean.” Ok, maybe he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought.

“Hey, Cas.”

“......................”

Okay, awkward silence. Right, Dean probably should have thought of something to say before he actually called. “How’s the case?” Good, excellent, shop talk, a solid, innocent reason to call.

“Are you calling to check up on me or do you actually want to know about the job?” the ex-angel queried grumpily, immediately on the defensive. Something in Dean flared up in reaction, the desire to respond back with equal aggression in reflex.

He dropped the pen to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to butt heads with Castiel, not right now, so he took a breath and said in as neutral a voice as he could manage, “Like I said the other day, kinda jealous you’re working with Asa Fox. C’mon man, I want details, what’s he got you guys hunting?”

“...oh.” Castiel’s irritation quickly deflated when it seemed Dean was not going to fuss at him or over him. “We’re tracking a coven.”

“Oh, man I-”

“Hate witches,” Castiel finished for him. 

Dean snorted. “You saying I’m predictable, Cas?” 

“Yes. But being cursed once would be enough to put one off witches forever, so I don’t blame you.” There was movement on the other end of the line, the familiar click of a cap being snapped off a bottle, then the sound of swallowing in Dean’s ear before Castiel exhaled. “Asa needed someone with deeper experience in spellwork than himself to assist.”

Dean nodded, Castiel certainly had that in spades. His friend had helped them many times over the years creating and tweaking spells and knew how to perform countless rituals for summoning, binding, even inflicting pain on a wide variety of creatures. 

Sometimes the only difference between what an accomplished spellcasting hunter could do and a witch was simply the intention. Castiel was a surly bastard, but the ex-angel was a good person. One of the best Dean knew.

“Yeah? What’ve you done so far? You know I suck at this stuff, it’s more Sam’s bag.” It was true, Sam had taken after Bobby and Dean after John in that respect. They all had their strengths. Dean’s was not the intricacy of spellwork and rituals, but he could sniff out a case from the everyday, innocuous, random mess of life, track, and kill things like nobody’s business.

“Oh...I...hang on...let me just…” There was a grunt in Dean’s ear. “Had to get my kit. We found a hex bag yesterday at a spot we're certain the coven used for a ritual. Not sure if they cast a curse or something else but… sending you a picture now.” A moment later Dean’s phone beeped with photo of the inside of a rosewood box carved with protective spellwork Castiel had made a few months ago to hold suspicious, possibly cursed objects. 

“That a cat’s skull?” Dean’s lip curled in disgust. Fucking witches.

“Very good, a serval actually.” Castiel voice took on a note of approbation. “What about the bundle of dried foliage?”

Dean put his phone on speaker and use his thumb and index finger to zoom in on the photo and squinted. “Hm...what does it smell like?”

“Oh, I’m not dumb enough to stick my nose in it.”

“Fair enough. Looks like hedge bindweed and...maybe celandine.”

“This is why I despise it when you sell yourself short, Dean. That’s correct.” Castiel’s voice was warm despite the chastisement. “I suspect it's for a binding, but what was bound is unclear for now.”

Dean cleared his throat, aware his cheek felt a little hot. “Shaddup, I’ve seen enough of that crap growing around Bobby’s old place I’d better remember some of it or he’d kick my ass from Heaven.”

Castiel made a noncommittal noise. “As you say. The glass tubule contains echinda bile, very unusual. You wouldn’t happen to have that list of shopfronts that sell these sorts of things nearby would you?”

“Hang on, lemme get Sam’s laptop.”

“Dean, you know how he gets about you using his computer.” Castiel’s’ voice was stern; he had not enjoyed the relentless complaints Sam voiced last time.

“Hey, I’m doing legit research this time.”

“He would not stop moaning about the virus you gave it last time watching pornography.”

“Cross my heart, Cas, this laptop will remain as virginal as Sam.”

“Sam’s not a virgin.”

“I know you are fucking with me, man. The Mr. Literal act doesn’t fly as easily now you got a little street smarts.”

“Damn. I was informed it was an endearing characteristic. It appears I may need to develop some others.” Castiel’s voice lightened, an indication his usual dour expression may have slid away.

“You’re plenty endearing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m very pleased you think so, Dean.”

 _Hold the fucking phone._

Dean replayed that back in his head. Nah, that just teasing, they do that. Well Dean does that. Cas not so much. That wasn’t...well it wasn’t anything, it just sounded weird in hindsight.

Dean quickly tapped through the folders on Sam’s laptop. “Gimme a sec. He’s got it sorted some weird way. Wait, it’s by state, the big nerd. Where are you guys?”

“Just north of Shelby, but we may cross into the Tetons if the coven heads in that direction.”

“I’ll send the list of the shops in both states, Idaho too if they jog west. Let’s hope they don’t head north. I dunno how your IDs would hold up with Canadian border patrol.”

“I had a similar concern. The stockpile of weapons in our cars would also be problematic.”

Dean snort. No hunter wanted their car searched by law enforcement. It was a great way to wind up in cuffs or the nuthouse. “No kidding. Okay, sent it to your email.”

“I appreciate it.”

“So you gonna do anything with that hex bag?””

“I was going to attempt a locator spell shortly. I have to inscribe a focusing sigil on the floor and needed to wait for a room to be cleaned.” He paused. “I’m not sure how good a job they did, so I'll use my sleeping bag on top of the bed tonight.”

Dean chuckled. “That bad huh?”

“Is there something in the nonexistent hunter’s handbook about using the most disreputable lodgings possible while working?”

“They’re cheap, Cas. We don’t exactly draw a steady paycheck with this job.”

“Point taken. In that case, when I come home I’d like to go to a casino and win some more honest money. I believe our lives are challenging enough without risking bedbug bites by being miserly.”

Dean outright laughed at that. “Okay, okay, I’ll see what we can do.” He paused and smoothed the cover of the old journal in his lap idly. “When do you think that’ll be? Coming home, I mean.” He hoped that sounded super casual.

Castiel hummed as other noises sounded down the line, the ex-angel apparently moving around his room. “I’m not sure. I’ve gleaned only a little about how Asa operates and he's taking point on this case, so I’m following his lead.” Dean stifled a frown, and Castiel apparently caught it as he amended, “I hope it won’t be too long. I’d like to sleep in my own bed. And burgers on the road aren't nearly as satisfying as the ones you make.”

“Shucks, Cas, now you’re just flattering me,” Dean said dismissively, quick to brush aside another exchange that raised a questionable flag in his mind.

“Perhaps a touch,” the ex-angel responded blandly and the hunter shifted on the bed, uncertain how to respond. “I’m going to attempt a burn locator.”

“Map or something from the hex bag?”

“I think the bag. It was infused with powerful magik. I feel it’s more reliable than a map right now.”

“Hey, open up video chat on your phone, I want to watch this. Sam usually does map burns.”

“Alright, give me a few minutes to set everything up, and I’ll call you back.” Castiel hung up without a goodbye, typical for him. 

Dean plugged his phone into the wall so it didn’t die in the middle of watching Castiel work a spell he hadn’t seen before. Plus, it’d be kinda nice to see his sourpuss face. Dean opened the mini fridge by the sink and pulled out the six-pack Sam left, some froo-froo artisanal shit with a fancy label that was actually damn good. Annoying Sam by drinking it when he was explicitly told not to was a bonus. Nerd shouldn’t have left it in the room then, so really, it was his own fault.

Dean glanced in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair then hurried to answer his phone when it chimed a minute later, settling at the desk with his drink and the way-too close image of one of Castiel’s blue eyes filling the screen, challenging the camera’s ability to focus.

“Cas, you don’t have to hold it so close. Arm’s length is fine.”

The ex-angel moved the phone away; that was better, he looked fine aside from a fading bruise under his left eye. All limbs were accounted for and Dean sighed the smallest bit in unconscious relief. “Heh, need a shave there buddy?”

The ex-angel’s hand raised to rub his cheek where a week’s worth of dark stubble prickled. “Yes, I’m used to using your beard trimmer and didn’t think I would be away this long, so I’ve had to deal with being hirsute.” 

“I can tell you the brand, pretty sure they got it at Wal-Mart of something.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll use yours when I get home, as usual.” No request to keep sharing, just an assumption it would continue to be that way indefinitely. The ex-angel’s fingers moved from his cheek to the side of his head, and he scrubbed it ruefully. “I will need another haircut also, it’s getting a little long for my taste.” 

Dean noted the length was closer to what it used to be when he was all angled up, but human Castiel had taken a shine to keeping the sides trimmed close to a fuzz he found pleasant under his fingers, the top longer, more stylish than what he’d had for years.

“Maybe I’ll start charging,” Dean joked. 

“I’ll pay you with my fraudulent credit,” the fallen angel warned. 

“Yknow, I almost miss the days when you didn’t have a sense of humor,” Dean responded, impressed with Castiel’s snappy comeback.

“I don’t. You were incredibly irritating before I determined much of what you said was in jest.” The insult was delivered with Castiel’s signature blank look into the camera, although the crow’s feet feet tightened as his lip twitched. 

Dean snorted. Castiel still didn’t pull any punches when saying exactly what he thought. “And now?”

“You’re slightly less irritating.”

“Flatterer.” Dean blinked when he heard himself use **that** tone, the one he used when engaging in a playful back and forth with chicks at a bar. What was he doing?

Castiel’s rough laugh sounded over the speaker and something flipped over in Dean’s stomach when the ex-angel responded, and his bland expression morphed into something else, a speculative look accompanying a slight smile. “I’m told it will get me everywhere.” 

Ok, forget Castiel learning how to be sort of funny, when did he learn what sounded like _**flirty banter**_? 

Dean must be living in the Twilight Zone because this conversation suddenly felt surreal.

The phone tipped and the picture skewed sideways a moment before it settled. Castiel propped the phone up somewhere that provided a view a portion of the hotel room facing the kitchenette. The former angel stepped back into view. Dean noted he was barefoot as he carried the rosewood box along with second one and placed them both on the floor as he sat indian style.

“Can you see everything?”

“Yeah, Cas, it’s fine.” Thank god they were getting back to business. “Hey, where’s Asa?” He wouldn’t mind getting a look at the guy, hell even saying hi, a proper introduction to a living legend would be nice.

“His room down the way.”

“Not sharing?” Dean quirked an eyebrow.

“No, he’s a virtual stranger. Although I feel he’s a trustworthy hunter, I don’t feel comfortable sharing with him.” 

“You crashed with Charlie,” he pointed out. _And in her bed_ , a little voice in his head sniped. Dean bitch-slapped that stupid thought away. He knew nothing happened, but that little voice was an irrational jackass.

“That’s different, she’s family,” Castiel said easily as he opened up the second wooden box, which Dean recognized as the spellcasting kit Castiel had cobbled together over the last few months and kept in the trunk of his car.

“She grows on you fast, right? Like mold.” Dean smiled at the screen, pleased they’d gotten along so well. He’d hoped they would, even more than he worried they’d eventually gang up on him.

Castiel paused in his rummaging through his kit to glance at the camera. “You can feign annoyance all you like, I know you are very fond of her.”

“What can I say, I tease because I love.”

Castiel’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something but clearly thought better of it, and his mouth snapped shut once more. Dean squinted at the screen in suspicion, but his friend simply ducked his head to rifle through his kit and pulled out 3 white pillar candles. 

Dean recognized those as the lamb’s tallow ones Castiel special ordered online. He’d become a little finicky about all his tools, from his guns on down, and rolled his eyes when Sam had suggested plain paraffin worked just fine for a lot of stuff.

“Do I tell you how to do your job?” Castiel snapped and Sam backed off, sharing a look with Dean. His brother simply gave him a smug smirk because it was nice seeing someone else on the receiving end of Castiel’s attitude.

Dean watched as Castiel crawled in a circle on the linoleum floor, tracing out a focusing sigil with a charcoal nib, licking his thumb then scrubbing to erase a mistake, cocking his head this way and that as he drew. Dean smiled, Castiel looked so serious while somehow also managing to look like a kid scribbling on the floor. 

When the man picked up the phone and turned the camera around to show it to the hunter, Dean observed, “That’s not the usual Sumerian one. Did you alter it?”

“Right again. What do you see?” Castiel’s voice contained a note of pride in it as the camera lowered and swept in a slow arc over the sigil so Dean could examine it more closely.

“You egomaniac, that’s Enochian,” Dean chuckled.

The camera turned back around and Castiel’s’ expression was suffused with pleasure. “I knew you’d recognize it. While many of these types of sigils are ancient and proven that doesn’t mean they’re one-size-fits all for eternity, right? I thought some adjustments were in order; something tailor made for the caster isn’t a bad idea.”

Dean took a swallow of his beer and nodded, impressed. “Sounds like a winner, man. Don’t mind me, just keep working and I’ll watch.” Castiel returned the phone to its perch and continued setting up the spell components around him as he sat in the middle of the sigil. He lit the candles and place them at equidistant points around the circumference of the circle on the floor. 

A mortar and pestle on the floor in front of him, Dean observed Castiel proceeded to grind up one of the teeth knocked from the cat’s skull and some of the bindweed. Dean held his tongue as he watched his friend nick his forearm to provide the routinely required blood price for the spell. The ex-angel added in a few more sprinkles of assorted herbs, each of which he explained out loud for the hunter’s benefit.

Asafoetida to prevent any residual dark magic from affecting the former angel.

Calamus root for control.

Nettle to assist in tracing any connective thread of power between the hex bag and the witch who made it.

Castiel snipped a piece of the cloth that made up the hex bag and dropped it into the mortar then produced his book of matches once more and one last handful of herbs. He glanced at the camera then back down, and Dean caught the guilty downturn of his friend’s mouth.

“And you’re about to do something I’m not gonna like, aren’t you?”

Castiel nodded. “Mugwort really is the efficacious catalyst for this particular spell.”

“Caaaaas,” Dean groaned. “If you wind up tripping balls-”

“You’ll kick my ass, I’m aware.” With that the new human dropped a handful of the dried plant matter into the mortar, lit a match and touched it on the pile of combined ingredients. A stream of yellow smoke trickled upward, twisting in the still air of the room, and Dean pursed his lips in disapproval as Castiel leaned over it and inhaled.

Nothing happened for a minute, then the ex-angel leaned back and opened his eyes. Dean started. All color gone, replaced by pure white, and Castiel’s head turned blindly from one side to the other as though he were still looking about the room. Dean had seen this once or twice before, once during another spell casting, another time with that bitch Lilith. It was eerie, any way you cut it. He was used to Castiel’s piercing blue, and it unsettled him.

“Cas!” Dean said sharply. “Talk to me, man. What’s going on?” 

“It’s alright,” his voice was steady as ever. “I see...the sun on my right and it’s setting. Heading south.” His head turned in the opposite direction. “Red...it’s red…”

“What’s red? The sunset?” His friend shook his head. 

“This place...but it is not actually red.” 

“Great, metaphorical directions, awesome. Hang on.” Dean flipped open Sam’s laptop once more and opened up Google maps and a search bar. “Keep going, tell me everything you’re seeing.”

“A train...not on any tracks.”

Dean may not be the internet whiz his brother was but he knew how to do a keyword search and tease out the actual helpful from the nebulous flashes of images Castiel was lifting from the ether, his vision sailing along that thin thread of magical connection between his hotel room and a coven on the move.

He opened a tab for every new search, a red place that isn’t red is probably a town or street named Red Something. The train not on tracks might be one of those hipster joints that repurposes a train engine or boxcar into a bar or tiny house or something equally dumb, or it could be a railyard. You had to poke around and try a little bit of everything with these visions; they were never as clear cut as a hunter would like.

“That’s a ski slope, even I can tell that,” Castiel said, almost to himself. “East facing.”

“Yuh-huh, ski slope, got it.” He started another search.

“A bear’s mouth...open wide.”

Dean’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what that could be, popping a few possible combinations into the search engine.

Castiel coughed and the noise dragged Dean’s attention back to his phone screen. “You doing alright there, Cas?”

“The images are coming fast...it’s difficult to parse them out...and a little disorientating. But I’m alright.” His head tilted to the left then his body swayed in that direction.

“You getting dizzy put your head down.” 

The ex-angel put a hand out to steady himself, blind white eyes staring sightlessly over the room before he nodded and lowered his head, thankfully not over the bowl of still smoking spell ingredients

“If fall...falls will anyone notice?”

“Well that’s about cryptic as you can get,” Dean griped and popped that into another search verbatim because that sounded like a dumbass riddle or something, and he hated those.

Dean kept going back and forth between searches, trying different combinations of what he determined were the likely key words and symbols from the slow stream of abstract images Castiel fed him. 

“You must pass…or you can’t pass?” Castiel’s was uncertain.

“You shall not pass,” Dean intoned in a terrible impression of Ian McKellan with a snicker. “Hey, think we’re onto something.” Dean flicked between tabs quickly, combining keywords and plugged a few into a map search. “Red...bear...boxcar...yup, ski slope...got it! Cas, douse that shit and open a window.”

On his phone’s small screen he watched Castiel flip the mortar over, suffocating the still smoking contents between the bowl and the linoleum. Another reason to use cheap motels, inevitable property damage like scorched floors. 

The ex-angel coughed a few more times and waved a hand in front of his face, blinking rapidly. Soon the blank whiteness of his eyes disappeared and bright blue wandered around the room until it landed on the phone. He crawled over to pick it up then moved to open a window as Dean instructed, in addition to turning on the AC and the bathroom fan to clear the air.

“How does Beartooth pass south of Red Lodge, Montana sound? It’s in Custer Gallatin National Forest.” Dean picked up his phone and pointed the camera at his computer screen which showed a boxcar diner, a ski slope, and, hilariously enough, a hotel with a marquee out front that literally said “If fall falls will anyone notice?” in a quirky effort to be cute.

“That’s it. That’s exactly it! Dean, your help is invaluable,” Castiel said a breathlessly, his voice more hoarse than usual. The ex-angel picked up the beer he’d abandoned earlier and finished it with a few short swallows. Heedless of the mess he’d left in the kitchenette, Castiel flopped back on the bed with a sigh, apparently drained.

Dean watched silently with an amused expression until Castiel said, with a note of regret, “I forgot to put my sleeping bag down on this disgusting coverlet.”

Dean snickered, “Was waiting for that.”

“I take back my gratitude.”

“Too late, it’s already gone to my head.” Dean went to get a second beer and he sprawled on his own bed, which wasn’t as bad as the one Castiel claimed to be stuck with. “That was a hell of a locator, Cas. Sam’s maps never get that specific. We usually get it narrowed down to a county, maybe a city if we’re lucky. Nice job.”

Castiel’s blue eyes focused on the screen, snagging Dean’s gaze easily, and his expression was smoother than usual, no pinch between his eyebrows or downward turn of his lips 

“Thank you, your approval means a great deal to me, Dean,” Castiel said with his usual candor, so honest it bordered on embarrassing the elder Winchester. The ex-angel turned on his side, phone held a foot or so from his face and the angle struck Dean as...well, exactly how how it would look laying down next to him. 

He cleared his throat and fiddled with the phone, sitting up immediately. “So, uh, you gonna go tell Fox, and hit the road?”

Castiel’s face shifted minutely from side to side. “I’ll let him know when we hang up, but I’m too tired to drive now. We’ll leave in the morning. That was more taxing than I anticipated.”

“Um, okay, good. That’s real god, shouldn’t drive when you’re wiped, Cas.”

“Mm-hmm,” his friend’s eyes blinked slowly at the screen, bright blue flickering into focus then slipping away again. Apparently that casting was more tiring than the angel was letting on; he looked halfway to la-la land.

“Sack out, Cas, you earned it. Good work.”

“‘Mm...goodnight, Dean,” Castiel’s voice pitched low, quiet and Dean shifted, something unnamed prickling to under his skin. He rubbed his arm quickly as though to banish the goosebumps that had appeared and quickly hung up. 

He sat staring at the blank phone screen for a while, thoughts moving sluggishly, unwilling to sort themselves into any semblance of order. They circled back a few times to a couple of exchanges that, had anyone else been having the conversation, would have sounded a little like...a hell of a lot like…  
…  
…  
…

“Naaaah.” Dean said to exactly no one, as he was alone in the room. “Just imagining shit.” He lifted the beer bottle and eyed it suspiciously, like Sam’s fancy-pants microbrew as to blame. Who knows, this artisanal shit tended to be stronger than his usual Miller. Still, it would take more than 2 for Dean to approach even remotely buzzed enough to… 

“Pffft. No way.” Yeah, it was nothing. Him and Cas just had a nice talk after not catching up for a while. He was allowed to be friendly with his friend! His best friend, hell, pretty much his only friend aside from Sam. And his brother didn’t count because he **had** to put up with Dean. 

Well, alright, Charlie was his friend too, annoying little sister more like it. He didn’t talk to **her** like that, letting his voice dip into the register he knew worked wonders on the ladies. Yeah, Jody either, she was kinda like a mom. No, scratch that, she was a too attractive and close to their age for that, more like your buddy’s hot aunt. Didn’t talk to Lottie or Justine like that either.

Huh.

When exactly was the last time Dean laid the old Winchester charm on a gal?

His brow furrowed as he thought back. Six months? Eight? No, wait. Was it as far back as Vegas week? Holy fuck, it was. During Sam’s trials, before he got too bad off, Dean insisted they still make the yearly pilgrimage to the modern mecca of sin and debauchery. Dear god, it had been that long. No wonder he was slipping, he needed to clean out the pipes or something. Immediately. Like right now.

“Whoa, where are you going?” his brother asked as Dean opened the motel room door right as his brother attempted to do the same and they nearly ran into each other.

“Out.”

“No shit, out where?” Sam shouldered past him and dumped a pile of reference books on the desk. “Were you on my laptop?” he queried accusingly.

“I wasn’t looking at porn!” Dean defended. “Cas needed some help with his case. Check the history, you’ll see it was clean searches and shit, ya prude.”

“You talked to Cas? He called?” Dean looked away. “So you called him.” Dean still wasn’t looking at his brother, so he didn’t catch the smirk directed at him. “Well, you guys have a good chat?”

“Yeah, it was fine. He’s good. Tracked the coven. He’s gonna head south in the AM with Fox.” Sam watched as his brother uncharacteristically fidgeted. This was...yeah, this was the thing has resolutely promised himself he was NOT going to get involved in. 

“Cool.”

“Cool,” his older brother responded.

After another few seconds Sam reminded him, “You were going out?”

Dean’s expression morphed into that fake smile one he always put on when he wanted people to know he was fine. He was AWESOME. “Yeah, there’s a skin bar on Halston, thought I’d go make some some bad life choices. Don’t wait up.” His smile turned into the lame leer that usually made Sam roll his eyes.

He didn’t do it thought. Instead the younger Winchester felt a swell of pity for his brother and decided not to give him any shit. “Ok, have fun. Take a cab if you get hammered.”

Dean looked a little disappointed his brother didn’t give him the usual “Gross, Dean!” when he implied he was going to get some action. Winding Sam up over Dean’s home run streak versus his own strikeouts was part of the joy that made Dean’s life worth living.

Not that his streak was particularly hot right now. Dear god, how had he not died of sexual frustration by now?

He got behind the wheel of his baby and flipped the radio to a kickass classic rock station he’d found. Ok, so it wasn’t like he’d struck out for so damn long because he lost his game. It was because he’d been really busy! Castiel, Angel of the Lord, crash landed hard and Dean had done the right thing: picked his friend up, dusted him off, and spent the better part of the last year teaching him to be human. How to live. He hadn’t had time to go trolling for tail, he’d been responsible and prioritized Castiel’s needs above his own.

Like an actual goddamn adult. Dean mentally patted himself on the back for his own maturity. He was a great friend. He owed himself a treat.

Less than two hours later he skulked back into the motel room.

Sam’s jackass grin made Dean’s own expression darken. “That was fast.”

“Shuddup.”

“Don’t tell me the famous Dean Winchester patent pending panty dropper technique bombed,” the younger Winchester razzed.

“No!” Dean said mulishly and jerked off his jacket with more violence than necessary. “Wasn’t feeling it. The quality in that place wasn’t Grade A.”

“Need I remind you about that ‘girl’ in the Irish Channel?” Sam made finger quotes, and Dean was so tempted to belt him.

“Fuck off. I wasn’t about to bring anyone back here. You’re a little old for sex ed, bitch.”

“Please, I caught you almost breaking down a gross bathroom stall with some pole dancer in Boise, remember?”

“Eat me,” he said sourly and strode for the bathroom to take a shower before crashing.

Who did he think he was kidding, Dean asked himself as he stripped down and got under the spray, closing his eyes and letting it wash off the stale smell of cheap whiskey and cigarettes from the bar. 

The strippers hadn’t been any worse than ones he’d nailed in the past. And a couple of them were a fair sight hotter. No, he hadn’t struck out! He’d been tossing bills out for lap dances and was absolutely on the express train to Pound Town when his phone chimed.

He was going to ignore it, but what if it was Castiel? He’d worn himself out casting a pretty heavy duty locator earlier, one Dean wouldn’t have attempted, considering using The Sight creeped him the fuck out. It was the responsible, awesome friend thing to do to check and make sure.

“This Dean Winchester?”

“Who’s askin’?” Dean grinned up at the blonde standing over him, leaning over enticingly. Those were some really swell boobs. 

“Asa Fox. I’m working with your buddy, Cas.”

Dean sat up straight and almost face planted into the girl’s chest. She looked affronted, and he appeased her with a quick $5 stuck in her g-string before he waved her away. “Yeah, I’m Dean.” He barely resisted the urge to say “sir.” Fox wasn’t old enough to be his dad, hell he was around only a dozen or so year older than Dean, but the guy was a legend.

“S’a good time? Sounds like a racket on your end.” 

“Gimme a sec.” Dean hurried for the exit, phone pressed hard against his ear. “Alright, I’m outside. What can I do for you, Asa?” Smooth, he totally said that like they’re old buddies and he’s not nervous at all.

“Calling to talk about your friend.”

“Cas alright?” Dean disliked the demanding tone that automatically came out, but it wasn’t like he got a lot of phone calls about Castiel that were good news. Did something happen in the couple hours since they hung up?

“Simmer down, your boy’s fine.” Crap, apparently something in his tone let Asa know he was worried about the feathery dumbass. “Just left to go crash. Told me you helped him on a divination or something and pinpointed that coven outside of Red Lodge.”

“Cas did all the work, I just did a little research.”

Asa made hummed down the line, a contemplative noise. “The guy’s pretty handy, gotta admit. Seems to know his shit.”

“Yeah, he’s a good hunter. Rock solid,” Dean confirmed. “Going up against witches you’d be hard pressed to find a guy better equipped. He’s probably forgotten more spellwork than even Bobby Singer knew.” Everyone knew Bobby, including Asa. Hell, Bobby was the one who told Dean and Sam a couple hunting stories about working with Asa years earlier.

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that. So, you and your brother, you two been working with him a while?”

“Years, he’s pulled our asses out of the fire more times than I can count.” So maybe Dean was bragging a bit about Castiel, but it wasn’t like he was exaggerating.

“Interesting. Since he’s that good it’s funny I hadn’t heard of the guy before a few months ago.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He damn well knew he’d just stepped in it.

Asa continued. “Now I got the word of a Winchester, Jody Mills, and the Seveaus telling me Cas is a good hunter. Dependable. Skilled. High praise for a man who came out of nowhere.”

Dean’s tone hardened, not liking where this was going, “Listen, Cas is one of the best men I know. So when I tell you there’s good reasons why he’s been off the radar, you’d be smart to listen to me.”

“That so?” Asa said lightly.

“Yeah, that’s so. And he’s my friend, so don’t fuck with him,” Dean warned darkly. Living legend or not, Dean would mess this guy up if he didn’t tread carefully.

To his surprise Asa chuckled. “Well, alright. Can’t blame me for being curious. Like I said, I got some reliable people telling me he’s a good egg. Guess I’ll stick with those recommendations, but Dean…”

“Yeah?” he grumbled.

“I won’t be the only hunter wondering about him, and you know how we get when we come across something we can’t explain. Cas would do good to have a story.”

“Fair enough. I’ll talk to him.”

“You do that. By the way, I know you and your brother like being flashy with that car of yours. Yeah, everyone’s heard about it.” 

Now he was talking shit about Baby?! Yeah, Dean wasn’t a fan anymore. 

“Your friend’s driving a neon green eyesore that’s not doing him any favors if he’s trying not to be noticed. Something a little less showy wouldn’t hurt.”

Dean hung up without saying another word and stalked back inside, his earlier mood having turned sour. He turned his back on the dancers and bellied up to the bar, ordering a shot and a beer. As annoyed as he was with Asa, the guy hadn’t said a single thing that wasn’t accurate.

Cas could be as vague and cagey as he wanted, but hunters would do what they do, and he’d need a cover to explain himself if anyone went digging. If Dean thought about it, he’s surprised someone hadn't asked by now. Months back Charlotte and Justine seemed to twig something was off about Castiel when they worked together.

The Winchester brothers were well known for working infrequently with others, preferring to hunt with only each other. Many hunters steered clear of them, given the habit of folks too close to Sam and Dean winding up dead at a higher statistical rate than the hunters who avoided them. Now, word through the hunter’s network was the infamous brothers were running with a guy who popped out of thin air, quite literally, with a vast store of knowledge of hunting and monsters. 

Yeah, it was fishy alright, Dean had to admit that.

The jibe about the car irritated him too but, again, Fox wasn’t off the mark. Dean drove Baby because it was Baby. It was his dad’s, and it was his and Sam’s legacy, the only thing they had left of their parents besides each other and dad’s old journal. Dean scowled at the empty shot glass and took a swing of his beer, shrugging off the hand of a dancer when it lit on his shoulder. She huffed and sauntered away on staggeringly tall Lucite heels; he didn’t even notice.

One of the hallmarks of hunting was trying to keep a low profile. Fake names, switching cars, and forging every sort of document under the sun to keep ahead of law enforcement. Yeah, the Thunderbird stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a sweet ride, but not good for what they did. Castiel would need something lower profile, a little more functional, something he wouldn’t care if it got a little dirty. And definitely a fucking power outlet so his damn phone didn’t die again.

When Dean got out of the shower, a towel slung around his hips, Sam greeted him with, “Quit drinking my beer, asshole!”

Well, that put him in a better mood, and he smiled sunnily at his irritated little brother as he hauled up a pair of boxer briefs and pulled a t-shirt over his head. “Talked to Asa Fox a little while ago.”

“Yeah?” Sam perked up, looking at him over his laptop. “What’d he want?”

Dean sat across from his brother, holding one of his own cheap beers. “He’s curious about the guy who appeared out of nowhere and started whooping ass across a dozen states”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Sam took a sip of his beer and mulled it over, drumming his fingers on the table top. “He’s been working overseas since the 90’s. Would explain why he speaks so many languages and knows so much lore across cultures. Everyone knows Bobby spent time in Japan. They met there. He only just got back stateside.”

A slow smile spread across the elder Winchester’s face. “I take back almost everything I said about you, bitch.”

He should remember when he’s barefoot and Sam’s wearing his boat-like boots because the kick his brother gave him was going to leave a massive bruise.

He muttered uncomplimentary things under his breath as he rubbed his shin. “Also, Asa said Cas’ car is a neon sign, literally.”

“Yeah, it does stand out. Guess we should help him find something else. Something with better gas mileage wouldn’t hurt.”

“And a tape deck.”

“Dean, enter the 21st century, I’m begging you. Any car with a tape deck is going to be at least 15 years old and have over 100,000 miles on it. You want Cas breaking down on the side of a road in the middle of Bumfuck, Idaho? Can you see him trying to call AAA?”

Dean rolled his eyes, “Fine, christ, take all the joy of of my life. Whatever, we’ll get him something a little more modern.” He said the last word like it offended him. He would never forget the over-the-top late model Mustang Sam drove when he didn’t have his soul and turned into a monstrous douchebag. Hell, if he was gonna let Cas get anything like that.

They spent the rest of the evening flipping through car dealer sites and arguing the merits of trucks over SUVs. The domestic over foreign debate ended when Dean gave Sam such a vicious purple nurple the younger Winchester surrendered championing the Toyota Land Cruiser with a howl.


	19. When the Ink Runs Dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a month since I updated and I've no excuse...okay I'm lying, I have 2 actually. I had a major convention where I was competing with my Armored Seraphim Castiel cosplay so I was working very hard on upgrading the wings (4 of them), and I won a Judge's Award! The other excuse is I fell down a rabbit hole of Black Butler and spent the last month writing a super smutty and sumptuous fanfic for that (feel free to check it out if you like kinky stuff and Victorian opulence).
> 
> That said, here's a new chapter. I'd intended for it to be twince as long and incorporate whole bunch of other stuff, but decided to break it into 2 so I can get the next chapter out a little sooner. So here's nearly 7,000 words to tide you over, hopefully.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> **I don't have a beta and no matter how hard I try to proofread I never catch everything until after it's posted. I'll fix any boo-boos later.

Sam padded down the cool concrete hallway of the bunker, fingers combing back his long hair as he yawned. The Illinois case had been a bitch, but manageable. It would have been easier if Castiel had been there, but you work with what you’re given. At least the ex-angel had been better about staying in touch over the last couple of weeks, based on how frequently Dean had excused himself from the room when his phone chimed. Twice Sam had woken up in the middle of the night to an unfamiliar sound, only to realized his brother was sitting outside their hotel room talking on the phone at 3am, his voice pitched low but the rumble in it still carried through the thin door.

Once the younger Winchester’s curiosity got the better of him and peered out the window and caught a glimpse of his brother leaning against the side of the car talking animatedly and gesturing with his free hand, miming a stabbing motion then laughing. Sam caught a glimpse of the lit-up phone screen and Castiel’s face before he dropped the curtain and went to take a piss, refusing to dedicate any further thought to the whole thing other than it was nice to hear his brother laugh like that once in awhile. 

Ongoing, deliberate, willful ignorance was the only way Sam was going to manage to stay out of this. Unlike his brother, he wasn’t a gigantic meddler. Although it was tempting to daydream about conking Dean and Castiel’s heads together to knock some sense into both of them. 

Nope, not involved!

He made a beeline for the coffee maker and his hand paused over the machine when he saw the pot was half-full. Before he could turn around a doozy of a snore confirmed for him someone beat him to the first cup.

Castiel was slumped at the kitchen table, cheek pressed to the wood, one hand curled around a mug that he’d apparently barely managed to make before he zonked out. Sam smothered a chuckle, glad his friend had made it home, and he didn’t look the worse for wear, a little more scruffy than usual, deep bags under his eyes, but no broken limbs that he could tell. He had a cut on his cheek with a butterfly bandage over it, but that was nothing. 

The younger Winchester decided to let sleeping grumpy new humans lie, because he’d been cursed out more times than he could count for waking Castiel, and poured himself a mug as he quietly rummaged for some cereal. He took a seat on the opposite side of the table at the other end and opened his phone to catch up on the news while he ate, stifling a snicker every once in awhile when the ex-angel snored obnoxiously loud.

He glanced up when he heard his brother enter a little while later and immediately wished he’d kept his eyes on his phone. The look on Dean’s face when he saw Castiel face-planted on the table was memorable, to say the least.

Kids at the asscrack of dawn on Christmas could hardly look more stoked. Thankfully, his brother reigned it in before Sam’s desire to make a snarky comment overrode his resolve to be mature and not throw fuel on this particular fire.

“Time’d he get in?” Dean queried quietly as he refilled the coffee maker, clearly making an effort to keep it down.

Sam shrugged, “Dunno, sometimes last night, I guess. I just found him like that.”

The elder hunter leaned against the counter next to the coffee maker and folded his arms over his chest, eyes practically boring holes in the angel’s zonked out face. “I talked to him on Tuesday, he didn’t say anything about being close to wrapping up the case.”

Sam shrugged and swallowed his Chex before speaking. “Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise?”

His brother’s facial features arranged themselves into some foreign configuration Sam had no idea how to interpret before they smoothed out. “Nah, he’s not sneaky like that.”

“Yeah, right.” Sam damn well knew Castiel wasn’t nearly as saintly as Dean seemed to be deluding himself into thinking. His brain wandered in the direction of those stupid videos Charlie sent him before he yanked them determinedly back in line. “When he gets up let him know I want to hear about how it went working with Fox.” 

Sam gathered up his empty bowl and clattered it into the sink. That earned him a glare from his brother for the noise, but Castiel didn’t even budge, too busy forming a lake of drool on the table to hear the racket.

“Yeah, yeah, fangirl, I’ll tell ‘em.” Dean waved his brother off and stayed where he was another minute, eyes thoroughly inspecting his friend for signs of damage, or at least injury significant enough to warrant hunter-level concern. He looked beat, but generally they all did. 

Gash on his cheek...looked like an abrasion from a restraint around his wrists...definitely needing a haircut...ink peeking from under his shirt sleeve…

_Wait...ink?_

Dean moved to stand next to the sacked out ex-angel and reached out, then pulled his hand back. He the adjusted to stand slightly behind Castiel, knowing full well if he woke him up unexpectedly the ex-angel might well fling a hand out and smack him in reflex. Dean had taken a whack to the nose trying to rouse him after Castiel fell asleep during Die Hard once, and the elder Winchester had learned his lesson.

He leaned over to gingerly pluck at the edge of the t-shirt. Yup, that was definitely a new tattoo. Dean tilted his head to try and get a better look at it. Looked like some sort of script, a language that seemed familiar but the hunter couldn’t immediately place. Looked pretty fresh too, the skin was flaking off and the marks were slightly raised. He was tempted to push the sleeve up a few more inches to see what marched under the fabric and disappeared but he knew he was pushing his luck, so he stepped back and breathed a sigh when Castiel let out another bone rattling snore. 

The guy was definitely totally beat. He usually didn’t snore unless he was completely exhausted. 

Not that Dean knew everything about Castiel’s sleep habits, but the bunker wasn’t exactly soundproofed all over and noise carried between the bedrooms the guys all had on the same hall. He knew some nights Castiel didn’t sleep until late; he could hear him pacing in his room or up and down the hallway. Other times, thankfully less frequently these days, he heard him cry out suddenly, then fall silent again. 

The first time it happened, about 3 weeks after his friend crash landed, Dean was outside his door in seconds, gun in hand and flinched back when the ex-angel’s door opened suddenly and he found himself face-to-face with a unsettlingly pale looking Castiel.

“You alright?” Dean had queried, gun dropping to his side.

“Yes...I...I had a….I think I had a dream,” the ex-angel replied, eyes shifting down and to the left, his usual tell when he was holding something back. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was going to...er…” What Castiel had intended to do by leaving his room was left unfinished, the man clearly not entirely certain what he’d planned except he wanted to get out of his room ASAP.

“Yeah, been there. Was it the one where you show up at school naked?” Dean joked.

Castiel blinked in confusion. “What?”

“S’pretty common dream, that and feeling like you’re falling and but you wake up before you hit the ground. Running away from something but it feels like you’re moving in slow motion. Stuck in an out-of-control car. You’re super late to something really important, stuff like that. It’s all pretty typical human head stuff that messes up your sleep.”

They’d wound up sitting in the library, slowly nursing a couple of beers and Dean sharing some of the weirder dreams he could remember having. Castiel looked pensive but attentive and wound up talking about Jungian archetypes and how the human mind was often a mystery, even to angels, but pointed out most of those dreams sounded like the product of stress. It had been a pretty cool talk. And one that allowed Castiel to avoid directly talking about what had woken him up so abruptly, but still enabled him to discuss it in generalities. 

Right now Castiel didn’t look perturbed by any dreams, he was completely and utterly out. 

Dean decided to make something hot for breakfast, pretty sure he could slam a few pots together and the guy wouldn’t even flinch. But he did at least try to keep the din down as he fried up a fuckton of bacon and made an omelette. He almost threw onions in it before he remember Castiel bitched about getting heartburn lately, so he left those to the side to toss into his.

He slid the plate right next to Castiel’s face, sat across from him, and started eating. When he saw the man’s shoulders hitch on a long inhale he reached over and moved the coffee cup still loosely encircled by the ex-angel’s hand out of the way.

It took another minute or so for his friend to return to the land of of the conscious and when Castiel raised his head and blinked blearily across the table at Dean, the hunter smiled cheekily at him and raised his mug in a silent toast before cramming a slice of bacon in his mouth.

Castiel looked at the hunter for a long minute, eyes clearly trying to focus before he looked down and they landed on his plate. It apparently took him another few moments to process what he was seeing.

“...I am so glad I rescued you from Hell.” 

Dean chuckled, “You’re welcome. Lemme know if you want seconds.” He didn’t pester Castiel with any questions about what time he got in or the job or anything like that, the guy was clearly still reeling and was focused single-mindedly on inhaling his food and chugging his now cold coffee without a single complaint.

When there was nothing but empty dishes and Castiel no longer looked like he was about to lick a plate, he sat up a little straighter with a fresh cup of joe and scratched his stubbly cheek. “The coven was-”

Dean held up hand, cutting him off, “Not asking for a sit-rep right now, Cas. Just glad you’re back.”

The ex-angel looked a little taken aback at that, clearly not expecting that response but he quickly relaxed and slumped in his chair, obviously relieved. “Thank you, I’m glad to be home. I’m also very tired.”

“I can tell, Sam found you passed out about to drown in your mug.” Okay, so he exaggerated a little. “Sack out some more, we’ll catch up once you’re a more coherent, cool?”

The gratitude on the ex-angel’s face was almost embarrassingly obvious, so Dean was glad when he shuffled off, one hand landing on the hunter’s shoulder to squeeze it as he passed.

And of course he left his dishes behind. Cleanup was not one of Castiel’s talents. Dean might actually get around to making up a chore chart at some point, if he didn’t regard the kitchen as his domain and got bent out of shape if stuff wasn’t put back exactly where it was supposed to be.

The angel slouched down the hall and took the stairs to the corridor where their rooms were. He hurriedly stripped out of his 2 day old clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor before swaying in the direction of his bed. Castiel couldn’t deny that when his face sank into his pillow, he’d moaned indecently with pleasure. Had a bed ever felt so amazing?

When he’d woken up hours later he’d felt rested and rejuvenated in a way he’d not felt in a while. Something about being in his own bed had a wonderfully restorative effect, so much so he indulged in some leisurely masturbation he’d not had the opportunity to indulge in in several weeks. Perpetually working and being on the move had a tendency to quash any desires he had to alleviate his tension. Although, he’d been tempted a few times in the last couple of weeks, feeling marginally more relaxed after he’d spoken with Dean, he felt a little guilty if one followed the other too quickly.

When the ex-angel’s thoughts skewed in the direction of the hunter he determinedly yanked them back into line and focused on simply being present in the moment, enjoying the awareness of his body and all the permutations of pleasure he could wring from it. His hand smoothed up and down his chest lightly before fingers fanned out over his stomach.

When his mind did wander he allowed it to recall how it felt pressed up against that man at the club, how different it felt when the brunette’s slim fingers curled in his hair compared to how it felt right now when Castiel’s fingers sifted over his head and tugged at the strands. 

When the man’s back was pressed against his chest, the drag of their bodies had caused his nipples to peak in a way they didn’t when Castiel ran his own hand over one. His finger outlined the dip of his navel but it didn’t feel quite as arousing as when that female bartender had traced her tongue around it as she took a shot off his torso. The heel of his hand pressed down over dark boxer briefs and the ex-angel sighed, even if it wasn’t quite the same as when a firm ass pressed up against him.

His own touch would have to suffice, even if it wasn’t quite as stimulating as the few he’d had with others. At least Castiel knew what he particularly liked by now; the V-shaped crease by his hips was especially sensitive and he wondered how much better it would feel if lips, a tongue, replaced his fingers there. If it was teeth that pinched a nipple. A warm, wet mouth instead of his dry fist circling his length. 

The former angel sighed languidly and fished around in the bedside table for the lotion as he stroked himself again; that was MUCH better, he should have started doing it this way ages ago. A little cold but that was rather invigorating actually, and it warmed up soon enough as his fist tightened incrementally every few strokes. 

If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend it wasn’t his but another’s touch on him. Large calloused fingers circling, squeezing, dragging until the head popped through the tight ring of fingers, the sensitive tip stroked in a way that had goosebumps breaking over his flesh.

The cool air of the bunker on his slowly overheating skin prompted a delicious shiver that had the ex-angel’s head rolling on his pillow. His legs slid restlessly, pulling the sheet down past his hips and when one foot moved to plant on the mattress he used the leverage to roll up into his touch, fucking into the circle of his hand. 

How much better would it be with another person? Their mouth, their hands, their body pressed against him.

Not just this single touch, but skin meeting matching vast planes of warm flesh. 

The pressure of fingers digging into his arms or his back. 

Teeth scraping over his bottom lip instead of his own as he bit down at a particularly pleasurable swoop of sensation. 

The weight of another body pressed firmly against his.

Acres of tanned skin under him.

A strong frame, arcing for his mouth to track over, his tongue tracing freckles and faded scars. 

Castiel choked on a groan he barely managed to stifle by clapping his hand over his mouth.

Once the image emerged it was impossible to banish, springing to full technicolor life behind his closed eyelids. He knew the heated flush over that skin, the rumble of that voice, the strength in those hands, the cleverness of that tongue. 

Castiel’s fingers dug into his cheeks to crush the next noise that tried to seep from him unbidden, a sound that, in his imagination, could be swallowed by another’s mouth, the generous curve of a lower lip caught between the even white teeth, green eyes too close and blurring.

The fallen angel’s back arched when he came, body curving up to a spectre that was there only in his imagination, the only sound in the room his own labored breathing and one thin moan as his fingers slid through the mess streaking down his length.

When he sagged back against the mattress, it took him a minute to pry his fingers off his mouth. Castiel kept his eyes closed, unwilling to open them just yet and face reality. 

“Damnit.” 

Alright, fine, so that happened. 

No sense in beating himself up over it. 

What was done was done. 

He was human after all, and human brains were sometimes inscrutable. And unruly. And creative. 

That was all it was, just fanciful imagining. 

His friend was, after all, an aesthetically pleasing person. Very much so, it was only logical Castiel would note and appreciate it. He appreciated the aesthetics of quite a few people.

They’d been acquainted for years now, certainly a short amount of time in Castiel’s incredibly long existence but those years had been filled with extremely significant experiences for both the world at large and the angel himself. 

Therefore he was someone the angel felt comfortable with, which is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he made an appearance in Castiel’s fantasy. It was simply a matter of proximity and acquaintanceship, that was all. 

Of course all that cool reasoning was completely blown to shit when Castiel’s brain attempted to put Sam in the same scenario and something inside the ex-angel rebelled strongly at the suggestion. 

“Fuck.” 

Alright...so...this was...something.

Something the angel was going to conscientiously stop thinking about for the time being and simply be glad he’s home. Also he was hungry again. Good, food was an excellent thing to focus on; he needed that to survive.

When he went to the kitchen he found it was depressingly bare except for cold cereal; everything else would necessitate he try to use the stove, and he wasn’t in the mood for that challenge. 

It was late afternoon and Dean was out on a grocery run when Castiel revealed he was upright. 

Castiel: _Where the hell are you?_

“Charming as ever, man,” Dean chuckled at the imperious sounding message as he tipped a pack of Oreos into the cart.

Dean: _It lives._

Castiel: _Technically._

Dean: _You’re not allowed to not be a morning person when it’s 5pm, Cas._

Castiel: _Not even sure what day it is._

__

Dean: _Christmas._

Castiel: _Fuck you, I almost looked for a calendar._

The hunter grinned as he placed a few apples into the cart along with flour, more sugar, and some other fixings. He was in a good enough mood to be magnanimous and grab Sam some froo-froo beer and Castiel some of that stupidly overpriced coffee he’d taken a shine to. He sent Castiel a picture of the bag and received a poop emoji in response.

Dean: _People are looking at me funny for laughing so hard in line at the Albertson’s._

Castiel: _I didn’t mean to send that. This screen is too small and these buttons are tiny. Thank you, I like that brand._

Dean: _No problem. Be home in a few._

Dean’s whistled a little as he plopped his purchases on the belt and paid with a hot card and wink at the flustered cashier. He sang loudly all the way home to Johnny Cash and kicked open the bunker door with a bellowed, “Anyone who wants dinner’s gotta help carry this shit in!”

Within the hour Dean had his brother and friend slaving right alongside him in the kitchen. Well, more like playing his sous chefs, cutting up crap and handing it over when he asked for it and cleaning up behind him as he the elder hunter proceeded to go a little overboard on dinner with the twice-mashed cheese potatoes and thick ribeyes, sauteed mushrooms, the works.

But c’mon! The gang was back together, no one was beaten to hell, Castiel had completed not one but two cases without the brothers, and made what sounded like a pretty solid impression one of the more well-respected hunters.

Sam was busy making salad in a bowl the size of a garbage can lid, over Dean’s protests, while Castiel sat on a stool, peeling apples for a pie Dean promised would single-handedly change the ex-angel’s mind about the dessert. Castiel looked noncommittal over the assurance as he ate some of the peels as he skinned the fruit.

“The skin holds the most the most nutrients,” he pointed out. Sam grinned gleefully over the ex-angel’s head at Dean’s betrayed expression.

“If you two start drinking protein shakes or signing up for marathons I’m changing all the locks on the bunker,” he threatened. Castiel decided he would not mention he’d considered the idea of participating in the 10K held in the next city over in 2 months. He enjoyed running, it was rather meditative.

“Don’t whine just because you’re the only person on the express train to a coronary,” Sam razzed and received a glare from Castiel, who was never entertained by either of the brothers’ annoying jokes about their mortality.

Despite that, he was immensely pleased to be home. Poor attempts at humor aside, he’d missed Sam and Dean very much and his bed and the shower and the library and the shooting range and the gym and nearly everything else about the bunker. It was strange to Castiel that he’d become so attached to so many material things, investing them with sentimentality they never merited before his fall. 

Castiel praised the meal quite sincerely as he’d been surviving on mostly fast food for the last couple of weeks. Even the pie, which wasn’t syrupy sweet but instead had a pleasant slightly sour tang to it, received his approval.

“Green apples and sour cream,” Dean confided, smug at having won Castiel over to pie finally. While the combination sounded awful in theory, the ex-angel had to admit it was quite enjoyable and he make it quite clear he wanted another piece tomorrow so Dean had better not eat the rest of it later when he thought everyone was asleep.

The elder hunter had the decency to look somewhat abashed at that; one didn’t need to be psychic to know that was Dean’s plan from the start.

They relocated to the room they’d turned into a den of sorts with a couple of sofas and one armchair Sam always commandeered to watch the Royals get eviscerated by the Yankees, which was mostly an excuse to roundly insult the city of New York as a whole. 

Castiel had no opinion one way or the other about NYC, but it was amusing to listen to Sam and Dean’s apparently intense dislike of the sports teams, the traffic, the accents, and generally everything about it. It was especially entertaining since the ex-angel was aware neither of them had actually been to the city; the closest they ever came was chasing an alleged Jersey Devil around the woods in the state across the river.

When the game was over, with their Royals once again displaying profound depths of incompetence, Castiel stole into Dean’s room to borrow his beard trimmer and finally start cleaning himself up. 

“You better clean your hair out of the sink this time,” the elder hunter groused, leaning his shoulder against the doorway as watched his friend work. But the ex-angel saw his smile in the reflection and knew he wasn’t actually irritable. He had a very pleasant smile.

“Are you saying I’m untidy?” Castiel asked with a light tone.

“You’re actually kinda a slob,” Dean admitted. 

“I know how to turn at least 6 things in this bathroom into a deadly weapon,” Castiel reminded him.

Dean snorted behind him. “Just saying, nobody’s perfect. S’kinda funny actually, dunno why but I figured you’d be neat as a pin or something.”

“I’ve never had possessions before, so I believe I’m allowed a learning curve on the merits of cleaning my room.” While it’s wasn’t a disaster zone, over the last year Castiel’s room had slowly begun to fill with personal items. 

It started with a few pairs of hand-me-down clothes and his FBI badge. Now he had books piled on his desk, weapons displayed on the wall over his bed because he thought Dean had the right idea; it looked nice and was handy to keep so many close at hand. There was a copy of the photo he and the brothers had taken with Bobby, Ellen, and Jo several years earlier tacked to the wall near a lamp. 

Many of Castiel’s clothes often remained on the floor where he dropped them as he changed until he tripped over something; that was generally how he knew it was time to do laundry. Under his bed was a small collection of running shoes and work boots, plus his assorted duffles bags and more books that had fallen to the floor and been kicked under there. And now there were 3 boxes stacked in the corner, Charlie’s mystery packages having arrived while he was hunting with Fox.

“Long as we don’t get a bug problem, do what you want with it, it’s your place too,” Dean said with a kind look on his face as he watched Castiel shave. 

The ex-angel was glad he used this trimmer as looking so frequently at the hunter in the reflection would have resulted in bloodshed had he been using a razor. Once he felt he was semi-presentable once more he turned and looked at Dean, pointing at his head. “Fix this.”

“So bossy,” the hunter retorted with a snicker as he dug out the electric shaver and guard kit from under the sink. Castiel took his usual seat on the closed toilet lid and closed his eyes. The moment Dean’s fingers sifted into his hair Castiel realized this might be a mistake. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and he hoped they weren’t noticeable. He kept his breathing steady and quiet; although when Dean tucked the towel into the collar of his t-shirt his fingers lightly brushed the ex-angel’s neck it became a little more challenging. 

“Same as usual?” Dean queried, although he was already working the shaver up the nape of his neck.

“Mmmhm,” the fallen angel responded, and hoped that sounded noncommittal and not pleasurable.

The hunter was quiet for a few minutes, slowly working his way around the side of Castiel’s’ head, changing the guard out to shave it closer to his scalp.

“New tat, huh?” Dean’s voice was close to his ear, but Castiel didn’t dare open his eyes.

“Y-yes, it proved extremely useful on the last job.”

“Yeah? It’s a ward?”

“An effective one,” he said evasively. It wasn’t that he was avoiding answering the question, but it was such an exciting discovery he was a little proud of himself, but pride goeth before a fall so was trying to reign his enthusiasm in.

“Quit being cagey, Cas, and spill,” Dean sharply rapped him on the top of his head with his knuckles and the angel’s eyes popped open so he could glare up his friend mulishly as he rubbed the sore spot.

“Ass. Fine. Remember I said I thought the coven bound something? They bound a demon.”

“They did what now? How does that work?” Dean paused and lifted the shaver from Castiel’s head, not wanting to give him a mohawk by accident while distracted.

“The corrupt soul was somehow repressed, caged, by the coven and they had, in effect, something like an empty vessel that still possessed the entire host of demonic powers...plus additional abilities imbued by the coven like-” his face twisted at the memory -”inducing hallucinations. It was challenging, to say the least.” 

Asa had nearly shot Castiel in the face when the unholy abomination convinced the seasoned hunter his partner was a shtriga. He’d received a dislocated shoulder from the ex-angel, but the pain snapped him out of the delusion; unfortunately, that had given the coven time to flee with their monstrosity.

Dean whistled low, “Super demon on a leash, sounds like a total bitch. And the ink?”

Castiel decided to hell with it and lifted his hands to his shift, stripping it over his head and dropping it and the towel on the floor.

“Son of a bitch.”

“It works.”

“It better, that must’ve hurt.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Quit bragging,” Dean chided without any heat as his fingers alighted on Castiel’s shoulder turning the ex-angel so he could regard his back. What started as a thin line of alien script up the back of Castiel’s arm thickened as it traversed his shoulder, then marched down one side of his spine to twist into an ouroboros shape at the small of his back, just above the waistband of his jeans.

Dean put the shaver on the sink and crouched, one hand on Castiel’s shoulder and the other rubbing under his chin as he stared at the tattoo, eyes tracking down the path of it, his lips moving silently. Castiel’s craned his neck over his shoulder to watch Dean, waiting to see if the hunter would pinge to it. He had faith he would.

After a while Dean’s glanced at him, “It’s Malachim, isn’t it? You got the idea from that thingamajig Crowley gave you.”

Castiel practically beamed at him. “I knew you’d recognize it.”

“And you’re telling me this makes you demon proof? That thing couldn’t make you hallucinate?”

The ex-angel nodded, eagerly in fact. “Or flick its fingers to throw me across a room or use biokinesis to inflict pain. Couldn’t interfere with any electronics I had on me either.”

Dean’s eyes widened. No more getting tossed around like ragdolls by Crowley. No more psychic torture. “Cas...this could be a huge game changer. If it works.”

“It works,” he said firmly. 

Dean stood up quickly. “I believe you man, but I gotta see it for myself, c’mon!” The hunter turned and flung open the bathroom door.

“Dean!”

“What?”

Castiel pointed the the half-a-haircut he was sporting.

An hour later Sam and Dean actually punched the air as they watched an irate red-eyed demon, trapped at a crossroad inside a large devil’s trap with Castiel, snap their fingers repeatedly and yet the new human in front of them stood there, neck decidedly unbroken.

Castiel, the smug bastard, actually slapped the demon in the face and the woman gasped, hand rising to her cheek in a facsimile of human shock before she screeched and curled her fingers into fist near her face. When the ex-angel didn’t crumple to the ground in agony her red eyes widened and she skipped back a few steps, only halting when the devil’s trap kept her from moving further away.

“I heard you were human! Why can’t I hurt you?!” she hissed.

“Cuz you’re a piece of shit and he’s awesome? Just a guess,” Dean joked from a few yards away. Castiel’s gaze flicked over to him for a moment, his tanned face a little duskier than usual from the compliment, but it was dark besides the one streetlamp so it was unlikely the hunter noticed.

“Winchesters,” the demon sneered, “you’re not in here with me, so I’m guessing you’re not warded however this one is.” When she clenched her fist again, this time her power wasn’t directed pointlessly at the ex-angel but instead at the ground. All three men stumbled when the earth heaved under them. While the demon couldn’t use its telekinesis on Castiel that didn’t mean they couldn’t still manipulate some of the elements.

The devil’s trap cracked as the pavement under it spidered with fractures, and the demon grinned malevolently as she stepped out of it and in the brothers’ direction. Dean had the demon killing knife in hand as Sam swung his pistol up, loaded with devil trap bullets. 

Before either of them could unload on the demon, Castiel darted forward and his fingers clamped down on her throat. The ex-angel rode the demon down to the ground, both bodies landing with a thud on the pavement as Castiel straddled her, his expression murderous. “You don’t lay a finger on them.”

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up at the thunderous tone of Castiel’s voice, the imperious look on his face as he glared down at the squirming demon. He sounded so much like the old Cas, full of heavenly righteousness and divine power, the hunter almost expected lightning to flash and the streetlamp to blow.

“Okay! Okay, got it! ” She raised her hands in supplication. “Let me go, and I’ll spread the word it’s hands off the Winchesters!”

Castiel’s eyebrow arched as he glared down at her before his head inclined in the brothers’ direction. “What do you think?”

The hunters mulled it over and Sam rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “NAH,” they said in unison. 

Castiel drove his angel blade right through her sternum, and Dean slapped him on the back before the hellfire flashes had faded from her form.

“It works!”

“I told you,” Castiel replied, but his smile was nearly as big as Dean’s as the hunter grabbed his hand to haul him up. 

Sam’s large hand slapped Castiel on the back several times in celebration. “Yeah, you did! We gotta get these ASAP.” The hunter’s eyes were wide and the look of unrestrained approval on his face suffused the fallen angel with a sort of happiness he wasn’t quite sure he’d experienced before.

Dean put the fallen angel in a headlock, scrubbing his hand through his spiky hair. “Cas, this is awesome!”

Although Castiel’s formulation of the demon proofing tattoo would have profound effects across the hunting community, saving untold lives, what made the ex-angel feel the most pride was sitting next to Dean then Sam as the brothers were tattooed two days later with something he created. Their bodies permanently marked with a ward of his own intuition and design that would protect them from so much evil. 

It was a struggle for him not to smile broadly for several hours he sat with them in the tattoo parlor. Dean elected to have the tattoo placed in nearly the same place as Castiel, but on the opposite side of his back and the tail of script that trailed down the back of Castiel’s arm to his elbow instead snaked over the hunter’s shoulder to wrap around his bicep. He even endured Sam’s teasing about having a real tramp stamp without trying to punch him.

“Whatever bitch, it looks cool,” the elder hunter said as he turned his back to the mirror and peered over his shoulder to admire the intricate ancient lettering Castiel had impressed upon the artists had to be replicated precisely. “At least I don’t have to drop trou in public.”

Sam shrugged from where he was laying on his side in the reclined chair in his boxers, one side pushed up nearly to his hip as the artist labored over the ouroboros there, the Malachim letters trickling down the hunter’s long leg to stop just above his ankle. “Doesn’t bother me.” Clearly it didn’t bother a couple of other people in the shop, given the looks one of the female artists and her client were giving each other between ogling the tall hunter. 

“Showoff,” Dean grumbled as he held still to let the tattoo artist tape dressings up his back and over his arm to protect the fresh ink for the next day or so before the hunter needed to wash and moisturize it to keep the exactingly drawn lines crisp and clean.

He flumped down next to Castiel on the sofa then winced and sat forward as his sore back reminded him to be careful for more than 3 minutes. They sat in silence for a few moments, watching the younger Winchester chat with the artist laboring over him, before Dean spoke again.

“Cas.”

“Hm?”

“I can’t wait to see Crowley’s face the next time he tries to-” Dean flicked his fingers with a smirk.

Castiel stifled the smile that threatened to break over his face again. He shouldn’t rest on his laurels, he knew that. Anytime something went very well for the Winchesters and, by extension, him, that was usually the calm before a very bad proverbial storm. 

The hunter nudged him with an gentle elbow to the ex-angel’s side. “Sometimes good things happen.”

Castiel started at those words and turned to look at Dean. An echo what felt like an actual lifetime ago sounded in his head. When the angel burst into a barn in a shower of sparks and dropped the weight of Heaven on this man’s shoulders and the hunter had denied someone like him, the low, base, damned creature he thought he was, could ever be worthy of God’s notice, much less his consideration. 

_Sometimes good things happen, Dean._

__

_Not in my experience._

The hunter held the angel’s startled, intense gaze for a long moment before the corner of his full lips turned up.

“It sucks you fell, man, I mean it really sucks, and you know I’m not making light of it. But this, Cas, this is a **really** good thing. So maybe it’s not all bad?”

Castiel blinked at him, stunned, and Dean hurried on, the smile slipping from his face as he appeared to try and backtrack.

“Sorry. I know you figured this out because you’re mortal now and got a vested interest in not kicking the bucket and all, so coming up with a crazy good ward like this is, like, survival but...I mean...I...ugh…” Dean scrubbed his hand over his face and looked like he wished he’s not said anything.

“Dean.”

“...yeah.” The hunter didn’t look at him, his hand still over his eyes like if he didn’t look at the ex-angel he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the foot in his mouth.

“I never thought it was bad. Because becoming human isn’t.”

The hunter lowered his hand and shook his head.

“You’re nuts.”

“No, I’ve been nuts. This is...different. In some ways, I think it’s better.”

It was the hunter’s turn to look disbelieving.

“Like you said, this is a good thing.” The ex-angel inclined his head in Sam’s direction as the tattoo artist wiped his hip and started to give the hunter care instructions for his new marking. “I can’t cure you two of nearly every ill like I used to. But if I can protect you and Sam from demonic influence with this ward…” The angle pressed his lips together and nodded firmly. “Then I’m glad I fell. I don’t regret a damn thing.”

When Castiel looked back at the elder Winchester he was taken aback at the expression on his face. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen this particular look before. It was something wholly new. If Castiel had to sort through his nearly inexhaustible vocabulary to find a word for it, he might term it...well, it seemed his limitless verbiage deserted him this time.

“You really mean that.” Dean’s words were not a question.

The angel nodded, resolute.

“...I got no idea what I..we did to deserve someone like you, Cas.”

Something in the fallen angel’s chest constricted, but it wasn’t painful, not really. It felt like something inside him flipped over in a way that wasn't anatomically possible. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but a new one, a different one. Another thing he wasn’t sure he had a word for, but it felt...amazing.

“Well, you did save the world. More than once. Shall we call it even?” 

Dean snorted and shook his head again, his hand coming up to land on the back of Castiel’s neck, not a hard clap but something akin to a firm squeeze. The hunter’s hand lingered there as he used the grip to haul the ex-angel into his side briefly. A half hug that made Castiel finally give in to the urge to smile.

“Not even close. But I’ll at least spot your bar tab tonight.” 

Sam walked up, thankfully wearing his jeans finally, favoring his leg slightly as he hauled on his coat and grinned at the two of them. “Bar? Uh, yeah, we need to celebrate! This is MAJOR.”

The ex-angel tilted his head and considered the brothers’ offer. “Sounds good.” He allowed himself to be hauled up from the sofa by Sam’s large hand grabbing his, and he was happy to accept a quick, hard hug of gratitude from the hunter too. Their enthusiasm, their appreciation for the ward, for Castiel’s idea, his presence, his friendship, it made the ex-angle more resolute than ever he didn’t regret his fall. Not one bit.

At least until he tried to order a round of Lemon Drops and was met with twin shouts of “Absolutely not!”


	20. A long, long time ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a bit more Sam and Dean POV...and some realizations!
> 
> Please excuse any grammer issues, I was in a rush to get this up! I'll go back and fix them later.

“I don’t like surprises,” Castiel complained from the backseat. He also didn’t like riding in the backseat, not when he could drive.

“Yeah, Cas, we got that the 5th time,” Sam said lightly from the passenger seat. 

“Relax, man, it’s nothing bad, calm down,” Dean chided, grinning at him in the rearview. Castiel squinted back at the man, blue eyes narrowing. He could not recall a single instance in his life when a surprise was something good, so he was entitled to be skeptical. 

“I am calm.” It was true, he was as stoically stone faced as when he’d faced down archangels and Satan. “What I am is suspicious.”

Sam turned halfway in his seat to look back at the ex-angel with a chastising expression. “What? You don’t trust us?” Sam, the diabolical shit, hit Castiel with the puppy eyes.

“Don’t,” Castiel warned, fighting and failing to hold up against the double whammy of a guilt trip and hang-dog expression the younger Winchester had spent 30 years perfecting to devastating effect. “Dean!” he complained.

“Don’t make me turn this car around, kids,” the elder hunter joked as he took an exit ramp off the interstate.

“I am older than you by a factor of a few thousand,” the ex-angel grumbled and slouched back in his seat. Both brothers snickered at him; it was good to have Cas back, sour as ever. Dean hadn’t been wild about his case with Asa taking nearly a month, but maybe absence really did make the heart gr-

_No no no do not pass go do not collect $200._

Dean turned up the stereo and started singing under his breath to Ramblin’ Man. Sam rolled down his window and surfed his hand through the air a few times before letting it rest on the frame. Castiel continued to shoot Dean suspicious looks in the rearview but eventually uncoiled from his tense position and slumped against the passenger side window and promptly fell asleep. It seemed like ex-angel had been stockpiling sleep since he came home.

Hunting the coven when it split into 2 factions shooting off in different directions had Castiel and Asa running their asses off for days on end, surviving on caffeine, crappy road food, and adrenaline. Castiel made it abundantly clear that while he found Asa as exceptionally competent and skilled hunter, and the job had been quite educational, the man was also obsessed bordering on compulsive and working with him was a **once** in a lifetime occurrence. Hopefully.

Dean let sleeping angels lie and didn’t lay on the horn to blast his friend awake when they reached their destination on Topeka. Instead he turned in his seat to put a hand back and tap Castiel on the knee a few times until he cracked a blue eye.

“C’mon, lazybones, we’re here.”

Castiel immediately sat up and peered out the window, then his expression clouded over. “We’re in a parking lot.” The flat tone of his voice was supremely unimpressed.

Sam and Dean traded looks before Sam got out of his seat and came around to yank open the angel’s door. “It’s a dealership, Cas, not a parking lot. We’re getting you a proper car for hunting.”

The former angel stared up at him from his seat for a few seconds before he was out of the car with a quickness that nearly knocked Sam to the side. Castiel turned in a circle, intense gaze scanning over the hundreds of vehicles of dozens of makes, models, and years before he came back to his starting point and looked at both Winchesters.

“My own vehicle. With my name on it legally,” he demanded. “Bought with actual money.”

The brothers nodded in unison and Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “A lot of that New Orleans money’s been gathering dust, so yeah.”

Sam chimed in, “Cas, the Ford is great and all but it’s-”

“A neon eyesore, I’m aware. Asa was rather vocal about it. I disagree. I like the color, but air conditioning would be nice. And an aux port, at the very least, so I can plug my phone in and listen to podcasts.”

Dean and Sam glanced at each other at that unexpected preference, then Sam coughed, covering up a small laugh. “Sure, Cas, all the bells and whistles you want.”

“Within reason,” Dean added. He and his brother had some extra cash to throw into the pot if Castiel wanted something a little more pricey, and they could always hit up a casino to let their friend get his Rainman on if the well started to run dry. But they weren’t going to go nuts.

“I want a truck.” Castiel said firmly, craning his neck until he spotted the truck portion of the vast dealership lot then made beeline for it, nearly leaving the Winchesters in the dust. He also left them at the mercy of three salespeople who converged on them from different directions, clearly angling for the commission. By the time they shook two of them and met up with the ex-angel with the winner, Castiel had his nose nearly pressed to the window of one truck before turning away from it to lean over the data sheet on another. 

“It needs to have four wheel drive, an extended cab, be Bluetooth capable and have on board GPS.”

“I like a guy who knows what he wants,” the dealer, a gruff older man with a no-bullshit air about him, said with a chuckle. “How about we look at some Fords, or are you a Chevy man? No way you’re a Dodge fella, I can smell those a mile away.” With that he turned the ex-angel and the two headed in the direction of the domestic trucks, leaving the Winchesters to goggle at each other.

“You get the feeling he’s been doing his own research?” Sam queried, eyebrows in danger of disappearing into his hairline.

“Yeah. What’s Bluetooth?”

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned and tugged Dean’s arm to follow their friend. “I’ll handle the extras, you kick the tires and pop the hood.”

A few hours later and Castiel, technically Casper Winston according to the Kansas driver’s license Charlie forged for him, was the proud legal(ish) owner of a gunmetal gray three year old Chevy Silverado crew cab with decent mileage. When Sam produced a cash payment in full the salesman threw in a bed shell into the deal, ecstatic to make his full commission without hashing out financing. 

Castiel hopped up into the cab of his new vehicle with a rare bright expression as his fingers curled over the wheel. Dean and Sam watched as he started it up and goosed the gas while it was still in park; at the undeniable roar of the Winchester approved V8 under the hood the ex-angel’s expression took an edge of proprietary satisfaction. He fiddled with the seat, moving it forward and back a few inches, reclined it a smidge then tipped it forward again before moving on to his mirrors and the steering wheel tilt.

“Heh,” Dean chuckled as he watched Castiel then he nudged his brother. “He’s gonna be at that for 10 minutes.”

“Five bucks says 15 before he actually puts it in drive.”

“You’re on.”

Twelve minutes later Dean snatched a fiver from his brother’s hand with a triumphant smirk as Castiel pulled out of his space and brought the truck to a slow, but smooth stop alongside the Impala the hunters leaned against. 

“Enjoying your new toy?” Dean queried, amused the truck was tall enough that Castiel seated was pretty much at eye level.

“Yes,” Castiel said happily, smile teasing at the corner of his mouth even as he looked away and reached to fiddle with the digital tuner on the radio. Dean grinned as his friend scanned a few stations before finding a classic rock station and saving it; of course, he rolled his eyes when the next station saved was pop. 

Sam moved to rest an arm on the driver’s window and whistled. “You picked a nice one, Cas. Still say you should’ve gone for the one with the seat warmers, though.”

Dean snorted loudly behind him. “Princess.”

Castiel had the decency not to look like he agreed too obviously with Dean on the superfluousness of warm seats. “I’m confident I’ll live without such a luxury...this is...this is more than enough.Thank you both.” He gave both of them a warm look, one that was almost uncomfortably affectionate in Dean’s opinion, who coughed and cleared his throat.

“Alright, well, time to get the lead out. You wanna fly solo on the way back or you cool with someone riding shotgun?”

Castiel tipped his head, considering. “I wouldn’t mind company. Driver picks the music.” He favored both of them with a stern expression that brooked zero argument.

“Pfft, ‘course.” Dean flipped the keys to his brother without another word, even as he prayed Castiel didn’t want to listen to Maroon 5, and Sam caught them effortlessly. As the younger Winchester rounded the Impala, he shook his head at how obvious his brother was as Dean swung up into the truck cab with a grin at Castiel.

Sam waved at the two men before pulling away, resolved to lose them on the way back home and maybe make a detour or two, enjoy the day. He wasn’t the only Winchester who enjoyed opening up the Impala on some of the less travelled roads of rural Kansas. 

Castiel squinted as Sam took a left out of the parking lot rather than a right back the way they came, then shrugged and tapped the large square screen in the middle of the dashboard. GPS opened quickly and Castiel input Lebanon and turned to give Dean a pleased look when their course back home was quickly plotted.

“You can quit looking smug anytime now,” Dean chided with a friendly punch to Castiel’s shoulder. “That’s pretty handy, even I gotta admit that. Now, lemme see how many stations this thing can hold.” As Castiel silently navigated to the city limits, Dean poked and prodded his way through what he considered a frankly way too complicated digital menu on the dashboard, but it did come with some interesting options and settings. He might be a die-hard fan of the classics, but if Castiel wanted something a little more up-to-date, Dean wasn’t going to treat it like a crime.  
“What the fuck? This thing’s got a tailgate camera?” Dean was torn between outraged and envious.

“Satellite radio too,” the ex-angel replied with satisfaction. “I believe for a nominal fee I could have access to hundreds of stations anywhere in the country.”

“Like 24/7 classic rock?”

“Or classical or jazz or popular hi-”

Dean waved that away with a dismissive sort and opened the glovebox to pull out the manual and start flipping through it. Nothing would ever come close to being as cool as Baby, but Castiel’s new truck was okay. 

_Son of a bitch, I could sync my smartphone to it wirelessly, play music off it. Huh, so that’s what Bluetooth is._

Castiel’s eyes slid from the road to his passenger every once in awhile, fingers idly tapping in time to the Beatles song playing through the speakers.

Meanwhile, Sam rolled through the stations on the old dial radio in the Impala until he found something from this millennia. He stopped to gas up the car, using the correct pump fuck you very much Dean, and took his time taking the back roads on a very circuitous route back to the bunker. He should probably do this a little more often, bug off somewhere and leave his brother and Castiel alone. Not so they could...do stuff. Sam knew that was pretty damn unlikely right now; he was absolutely positive his brother wasn’t in denial so much as completely oblivious to the fact you don’t look at your best friend the way he looks at Castiel.

Might take years for Dean to get his head out of his ass, and when he did Sam wasn’t at all sure what the end result would be. He could only hope at the end of it all Castiel was still around and didn’t get so frustrated or pissed he fucked off to the other side of the country or the planet. The younger Winchester knew, logically, that was Castiel was practically emotionally dependent on both himself and Dean, and if he’d stuck by them through the Apocalypse, Leviathan, Metatron, and everything else he’d still be around after Dean hurt his feelings. Even if he probably punched Dean out for being an ass.

It was interesting, Sam reflected to himself as he drove, leaving his brother and friend in his rearview, what had happened in the last year. And it wasn’t just the heart-stopping realization his hyper-masculine brother was apparently nursing the world’s biggest crush on a guy, and had been for years.

A lot of it was watching Castiel became a new person. An actual whole person with quirks and mannerisms and needs that had nothing to do with Heaven or the Winchesters, but because these were things all Castiel and drawn from his own experiences. Watching his friend develop his own preferences and tastes over the last year sort of felt like a hands-on lesson in what it meant to be human.

Sure, his friend had done a few things that made Sam scratch his head and wonder what on earth Castiel was thinking, like the loa incident or why he took off with Asa Fox and gave Dean the cold shoulder for days on end. The vast majority of things Castiel had done over the last year had the younger Winchester observing the fallen angel with a mix of curiosity and amazement.

Sure, he’d known Castiel for a long time, but as an celestial being. Someone who didn’t eat or sleep or do jack shit for fun, at least not more than nominally when ex-angel had been pressed into participating in a few human activities for the sake of blending in. 

Castiel had become a runner, turned out not to be a morning person, he could shoot like a military sniper but continued to be flummoxed making anything more complicated than toast. 

He was a little sloppy, neglectful about cleaning his room and sometimes his knives, and left a trail of wadded up paper towels behind him in the bunker Sam was forever picking up. But he was meticulous in maintaining his guns and the Thunderbird. He’d become increasingly adept at using the computer, but often preferred to take notes on paper and was apparently ambidextrous.

Castiel was often was pushy about his training, demanding more instruction from the brothers, then he’d turn on a dime and get snappy with them over being corrected. His impatience had become something of a dark joke between the brothers, given a being older than the earth got fussy when the coffee took too long to brew.

As much as Castiel still complained about how time consuming hygiene practices were he was fastidious about keeping his hair and stubble short whenever he could. He had developed his own clothing taste and made it clear he found flannel unappealing and band t-shirts did not exist in his wardrobe. 

He read nearly everything he could put his hands on, and was slowly starting to discriminate between genres.

“Half the time I read a history book I want to call the publishers and yell at them for the inaccuracies,” Castiel groused one day when he tossed down a copy of a Douglas MacArthur biography in annoyance. 

He was easily perplexed by the abstraction of poetry, but had indulged Sam when the younger Winchester tried to walk him through some of Robert Frost’s more obvious poems. At the same time the ex-angel had marked up a copy of Walt Whitman’s prose _Leaves of Grass_ so thoroughly he had to buy it from the library when Dean pointed out he’d ruined their copy. He’d announced, with an annoyed furrow to his brow, Ayn Rand was one of most infuriating, yet intelligent, writers he encountered and he wasn’t sure why he continued to read _Atlas Shrugged_ except he found Objectivism both arrogantly amoral and philosophically intriguing.

To Sam’s utter shock Dean had chimed in with, “Hey, that crap she called the ‘virtue of selfishness’ isn’t just about putting yourself first, Cas, and screw everyone else. She was just pointing out a lotta people are so caught up in trying to make everyone else happy they make themselves miserable. If everyone worked for their own improvement first it might not be a bad thing.”

Sam barely had time to pick his jaw up off the library table before Castiel leaned in, voice serious, “Seems you should take her advice on that count, Dean. But, honestly, her philosophy is like communism. It sounds great in theory but it’s shit in practice because it ignores the inherent nature of man to be greedy and envious.” Sam had to give Cas a high five for the both the pointed zinger landed on his brother and the accurate summation of Rand. Sam had loathed _The Fountainhead_ when he was forced to read it in high school.

Sam had to remind himself that as much crap as he gave his brother sometimes, Dean wasn’t stupid. He was a gearhead and an amazing hunter, sure, but that was far from the only thing in his brain. He never graduated high school but picked up his GED on the sly, behind their father’s back, which was no mean feat. He was quick witted, and had a terrifically keen brain for breaking down complex ideas and concepts down their nuts-and-bolts. 

Watching Dean and Castiel argue over authors was entertaining and enlightening. They both labelled Stephen King a complete hack, and if this is what most people found scary it spoke volumes for the softness of the average civilian.

It hadn’t occurred to Sam to talk novels with his brother, and he felt a little bad about that, but Castiel seemed to have a knack for drawing Dean into a conversations his brother often brushed off when Sam tried to engage him. He couldn’t forget that night he overheard them talking really late in the library about nightmares, his brother confessing to a doozy or two Sam didn’t know about. 

He didn’t resent Castiel’s ability to pull from Dean, sometimes without apparent effort, things the man worked hard to keep hidden from Sam. It had been his brother’s default setting for so long to shield the younger Winchester from things it was a very hard habit to break. It didn’t matter that little Sammy was now in his 30s and had a kill tally in the triple digits.

Likewise, there were things the brothers discussed he knew Dean didn’t share with the ex-angel; specifically, conversations about him. Dean’s concern about Castiel’s growing push for independence, Sam’s insistence that allowing the man some room to grow wasn’t putting his life in any more danger than it already was, given the hunting and living with the Winchesters. Sure, his brother often tried to soft pedal his worry by masking it under irritation, impatience, or resentfulness, but Sam saw through Dean’s bullshit easily. Sam shared some of Dean’s worry, he wasn’t willfully ignorant to reality. 

They talked about Metatron, about the possibility any wisp of Castiel’s grace might still exist, about the likelihood it didn’t. About Castiel making a name for himself in the hunting community, how they could help him keep that an advantage and not let it turn into a target on his back. About keeping him alive as long as they could, for as long as they managed to keep themselves going. How long could they keep this up before it become genuinely suicidal.

Sam had finally started appreciate the pressure Dean had been under from a young age trying to do the same his brother since they were children. 

Castiel was sometimes reckless, a long ingrained habit from a nearly infinite lifetime of divine strength that allowed him to plow through demon hordes and raid Hell itself. Sure, he’d tempered it noticeably in the year since he became human, but it leaked out here and there. He still threw himself in front of demons and monsters in an effort to protect the Winchesters, apparently forgetting he bled and bruised just like them now. And, jesus, was Castiel stubborn, so proud it lead to frequent arguments with his Sam’s equally bullheaded brother. 

Once either of them got a notion in their heads, it was nearly impossible to forcibly change their minds. No, they both had to make their own mistakes, and they were nearly always painful, before they took a step back to reassess and try a new tack.

Castiel also did things that delighted Sam as much as shocked him. Like earlier this week when he walked into the library with a gaming system in his hands and informed them the brothers needed their assistance in connecting it to the television. Charlie had sent him a Xbox, a gaming laptop, and a box of accessories including controllers, headsets, and a handful of games. After fussing with the tv and determining they needed a better sound system than just the set’s speakers, a quick trip to Wal-mart for that, they had the system up and running. Before any of them knew it was after 2am, they had a Steam account for the laptop, and were working their way through Rainbow Six Siege on the Xbox.

For a guy who took forever to figure out his voicemail, Castiel had become a giant gaming nerd and, perhaps unfortunately, the brothers were catching the bug also. Sam had called Charlie for advice on cross platform gaming and gotten dragged into a Elder Scrolls raid that kept him up way too late. They might have to put down some limits on gaming, but for now it was weirdly normal and fun for the three of them to plunk down on the sofa or floor and talk trash while battling each other. They’d yet to successfully play with other teams without getting soundly razzed for being noobs to the point where Sam had to mute Dean before he started threatening to hunt down obnoxious teenagers.

Sam smiled and shook his head at the memory, how achingly ordinary it was. He didn’t know how Castiel managed to do it, but he had, probably without meaning to or noticing it. Guess that was just one of the guy’s gifts, of the distinctly human kind. He’d become family in a way they’d never anticipated, and it was better than Sam had ever expected when Castiel showed up smelly, dirty, and exhausted without an ounce of angelic power on their front step.

This was stuff normal people did, when they put down roots, had a home. The Winchesters didn’t have a lot of normal, but somehow Castiel falling from Heaven and into a spare bedroom in the bunker had somehow brought a little slice of normalcy into their lives. Video games, arguments about books and movies, working together in the kitchen over meals that had some healthy stuff in them, buying a car legally. 

It was nice. 

Sam wasn’t all that surprised when he got home that evening and found his brother and Castiel in the garage, measuring tape in hand and the tailgate and camper shell open, already plotting how to equip the bed of the truck for a hunting kit. Sam suggested a camping roll or foam pad to make the bed serviceable in case Castiel had to crash it in on a job, if a hotel wasn’t available. Sam and Dean had, until recently, occasionally stayed overnight in the Impala, years of practice making it second nature to fold their long legs along the seats to sack out. That had stopped when Castiel started hunting with them, not enough room. 

Their friend had made it increasingly clear he disliked quite a few of the musty roadside motels they frequented during their travels, and they couldn’t really afford to splash out for nicer digs too often. Using cards like that too frequently raised red flags, also they tended to wreak havoc on their hotel rooms with spells and the occasional fight when a monster or demon tracked them down first. So chucking a sleeping bag into the back of Castiel’s new truck was a smart move.

Over the next few days Castiel, and Sam also, got a crash course in carpentry from Dean as they built and installed a rune etched lockbox in the truck bed for Castiel to keep his specialized weapons and spell kit in, along with anything hinky they might pick up on jobs that needed to be locked down until they could secure it at the bunker. Sam had the idea to build a platform that so items could be stored under it while freeing up space on top for sleeping or someplace to stash a body until they could burn it. Dean was the one who suggested it could flip up or slide out entirely to save space. 

Cue epic building montage, as Charlie would say.

There was some measuring, swearing, more measuring, a few thumbs hit with hammers, more swearing, but at the end of the week Castiel was the proud owner of a pretty tidy 4 wheeled hunting instrument of terror for any monster they rolled up on. Dean had gone a little overboard installing drawers on casters that rolled in and out for Castiel to shove clothing, guns, his laptop, and the like. Sam didn’t have it in him to tease Dean about Castiel’s truck now being a hell of a lot more equipped for hunting than the Impala. Dean, and by extension Castiel, were enjoying themselves tricking out the truck, and Sam let them have it.

He only dreaded the moment when Dean realized he’d given Castiel nearly everything the guy needed to run off hunting on his own and Castiel actually did that. Sam knew it was going to happen sooner or later, he only hoped it didn’t come about as a result of a fight.

Saturday afternoon Sam was on his laptop in the library, phone pressed to his ear as he explained how they’d handled their own woman in white to fairly incensed Mrs. Tran who was not at all pleased Kevin had decided to squeeze a little hunting in on the side of starting undergrad at Cornell. The prophet missed Harvard due to the unplanned hiatus from high school and had to console himself with another Ivy League school a bit later than planned. 

Crowley was keeping his distance from Kevin since Mrs. Tran moved across the street from her son’s dormitory and started practicing spellwork out of sheer spite. She managed to put an incredibly unpleasant hex on the King of Hell that kept the smug bastard in relative hiding until the pus filled boils on his meatsuit eventually cleared up.

“Mrs. Tran, look, it’s not like we sent him a case! He found this on his own,” Sam pleaded, virtually cowering under her withering tone even though she was over a thousand miles away. While he looked forward to meeting up with both Trans for Thanksgiving next month, since the Winchesters and Castiel had been ordered to get their asses to Ithaca for the holiday, he dreaded the ferocious lecture he was positive she would deliver to all of them once she finished feeding them.

“If you can confirm the general area she’s appearing you can narrow down possible hot spots by checking old news stories. Accidents, suicides, drownings,” Sam rattled off as he spotted his brother crossing the doorway and, he snapped his fingers to get his attention. “They usually linger near the spot of their death.” He mouthed _Mrs. Tran_ at his brother who immediately started backpedalling out of the room. “Hey! Dean’s here, say hi, Dean!” Sam immediately put his cell on speaker, much to his brother’s chagrin.

“Dean! Explain to Kevin why tracking one of these women in white is not his job. At least not alone!” her voice sounded stridently down the line and the elder Winchester winced as he approached the phone and slapped Sam on the back of the head. 

“Hey, Dean,” came Kevin’s tired voice down the line, clearly having been roped into the conversation as effectively as both Winchesters.

Sam slide the phone across the table to his brother with a malicious smile, abandoning him do Tran duty now that Sam had fulfilled his share, and scooted his chair out of slapping range.

Castiel appeared a few minutes later with a beer and a thick book, which he replaced on the shelf, before turning to Sam. “Mrs. Tran sounds upset.”

“She usually does when it comes to Kevin. Tiger mom.” He waved Castiel’s puzzled squint off. “What’s up?”

“I finished translating that grimoire, and I’ve idea for a new ward,” he plunked a notepad with several variations of a sigil on it. “Also, there’s a triple feature of the Star Wars movies tonight.”

“Really?” Sam queried, interested. “Original or new?” 

“Dean says the newer movies do not exist, as they are an abomination. These are the originals, and he’s been adamant I see them.”

Sam snorted. “I don’t think they’re that bad, but I was a little younger when they came out so I’m not as picky as him about that stuff. Triple feature huh? That’s old-school. Sounds fun.” A quick google search for a showing of Episodes 4-6 gave Sam pause. “Ah...actually, I just remembered I got a thing.”

“A thing.” Castiel’s tone managed to be both entirely flat and skeptical at once. The guy was a marvel.

“Yeah, it’s a whole-” Sam waved distractedly, “thing. With a woman, actually.” For someone who routinely lied to suspicious law enforcement, Sam wasn’t the greatest at bending the truth around Castiel, who tended to take everything he said as practically gospel. So he’d have to go out and find a thing with a woman tonight. Not the worst idea, to be truthful.

“...oh.” Castiel blinked then his eyes widened. “Oh! Yes, of course. A date. That’s...that’s nice, Sam. I don’t recall the last time you socialized in any significant way with a woman who wasn’t a hunter. This will be good for you,” he concluded sagely.

“Wow. Thanks, Cas,” the younger Winchester responded dryly. “But you and Dean should totally go. Have fun.”

Castiel nodded and tapped the notepad in front of Sam, reminding him to look over the ex-angel’s warding draft. If Sam knew Castiel, once they nailed down the correct inscription the man would either etch it into the bunker walls, somewhere on their cars, or get it inked on his body, depending on what it was designed to protect against. 

Dean was 100% on board with Star Wars, and was giving Sam shit about having no taste or interest in seeing the movies with them until Castiel indelicately said, “Sam has plans. With a woman.” The last part was said with an unnecessary amount of gravity and raised eyebrows at Dean whose mouth dropped open a moment before he cut his eyes at his brother and snickered.

“Blow up dolls don’t count, Sammy.”

“Eat me, jerk.”

“Blow me, bitch.”

“If you are done being asinine, the movies are playing in Kannapolis, which is not a short drive,” Castiel cut in.

“Fine, enjoy your ‘date’ with Rosie Palm and her five sisters, Sam.” Dean flipped his brother off before following Castiel to the garage, where the angel insisted they take his truck rather than the Impala.

“Fine, Sam better not mess around in her, though. I will shoot him if the seats have to be cleaned again.”

“No, you won’t,” Castiel reminded him as he hopped up into the cab and started his new favorite toy with a little smile.

The ride to Kannapolis took over an hour, but Dean wasn’t fussed. It was an unexpected treat to find the original, kickass Star Wars movies playing anywhere nearby, and he used the time to explain, not to Castiel’s entire satisfaction, why the first three movies started on chapter 4 and the merits of watching them in movie release order versus universe chronological order. Machete order was bullshit. 

“Not to give anything away Cas, but if you watch chapters one through three first there’s a big reveal in chapter 5 that gets totally ruined. Also the prequels suck ass, so there ya go. And fuck Jar Jar Binks.” 

“I have no idea what a...whatever you just said is, but I concede to your authority on the matter,” the ex-angel intoned solemnly before slapping Dean’s hand away from the radio when Maroon Five came on.

When they pulled up to the theater Dean’s mouth dropped open, and his head swung to look at his friend. “Cas. This is a drive-in.”

“Your eyesight is keen as ever,” Castiel rejoined and the level of sass in the response took some of the indignation out of Dean’s attitude. But not all of it.

“It’s a _drive-in._ ”

“Yes. And?” Castiel leaned out to pay for 2 tickets and pulled past the attendant’s booth to slowly navigate the rows in the lowering dusk to find a spot near the middle.

Dean was about to explain that two dudes do NOT go to the drive with each other because everyone knows drive-ins are where teen pregnancy and other fun stuff happens. Then he reminded himself Castiel wasn’t everyone. And it was Star Wars after all. 

Fine. 

He wouldn’t bother to explain it because it would go right over his friend’s head anyway and probably be awkward. He only hoped anyone parked near them didn’t A) get the wrong idea about the two of them or B) fog up their windows so he had to give another birds and bees talk to the ex-angel. 

“Whatever. At least tell me they have snacks. And beer and...what are you doing?” he said in exasperation as Castiel swung the truck around.

“Backing up. Other trucks are doing it. It makes sense; the bed is more larger and more comfortable,” he replied reasonably.

Dean’s dirty mind nearly gained control of his mouth and lead to a crude remark, but he managed to wrangle it back in line and gave up bickering when Castiel informed him there was a cooler of beer in the back because he was not, in fact, an idiot.

They banged down the tailgate and Dean started for the second time in 5 minutes when he saw a couple of sleeping bags haphazardly spread on the hard bed floor. He watched in silence as the ex-angel crawled into the back of the truck to pull out the cooler and slide open one of the drawers, which was supposed to hold weapons, to produce a bag of goddamn Haribo gummi bears. Dean loved those stupid gummi bears.

Dean nearly took a wallet to the face when Castiel flipped his at the hunter. “Popcorn.”

Dean tossed it back. “Nah, you got the tickets, I got the popcorn.” He turned on his heel and headed for the concession stand before he realized that was exactly what you said on a d-

…  
…  
… on a date.

He smacked his palm against his forehead twice in a vain attempt to knock the thought right out of his head. 

_This is not a date!_

__

__

_This is Cas being Cas and not knowing how drive-ins work, and he just wants to see Star Wars because I’ve been on his ass about it, and Sam was supposed to come and…_

“Saaaaam” he groaned under his breath. He knew, he just **knew** Sam figured out this was a drive-in and let him go without any warning because he’d think it was hilarious his brother got caught up in a….date-like type situation with Castiel, social dumbass of the Garrison. 

Dean whipped out his phone and almost sent his brother a scathing message before he thought better of and decided not to give Sammy the satisfaction of pulling one over on him.

“Whatever,” he grumbled to himself, determined to quash any feelings of unease...and excitement?

_Shut up, brain, you’re stupid._

It was Star Wars; he’d be too wrapped up in the movie, and probably explaining shit to Castiel as it played, to worry about anything happening. 

Not that he wanted anything to happen! Because that was weird and Castiel is an angel, or was, and a **guy** and if the ex-angel was ever gonna do any cloud-seeing it was gonna be with a chick! 

And Dean too! With a chick! With boobs and stuff!

“Sir? Sir?” He blinked and came back to himself to realize he’d been standing at the front of the short line blankly for god knows how long and the bored teenager manning it was trying, and failing, not to give him the “adults suck” look.

He quickly got a large popcorn and 2 sodas and juggled everything back to the truck to find Castiel, thankfully, sitting on the tailgate. He passed a drink over and Castiel took a sip of his soda.

“Vanilla Coke? Thanks, that’s the only one I like,” he murmured, eyes flicking to Dean’s with an appreciation in them that had the hunter nearly smacking himself in the forehead again. Why the hell does he know Castiel’s pickiness about carbonated beverages?

 _Because you’ve lived in each other’s back pockets for the last year_ his annoying brain supplied. 

_Stop thinking about his being in his pockets or pants or whatever!_

Dean hopped up on the tailgate too, putting the jumbo sized bucket of popcorn between then and ensuring he was a respectable distance away so this didn’t get any more embarrassingly date-y. He reached over to snag a speaker from its stand to secure it to the edge of the camper shell so they could hear it. Castiel did the same on his side.

Then the fricking ex-angel scooted back...and back...and back until he leaning against the back of the truck’s cab, long legs stretched out in front him and boots crossed at the ankles. Dean sighed mightily and shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice said impatiently. “You’re blocking part of the screen.”

The hunter edged over to the right 6 inches. An irritable huff sounded behind him, and he moved over some more, half his ass about to fall off the tailgate.

“Are you going to eat all the popcorn? That’s rude.”

Dean was going to straight up murder Sam in his sleep when he got home.

But first he was going to suffer through this, try and focus on getting Castiel up to speed on the single most important movie franchise in history, and remind himself his friend had no idea what he was doing. If the hunter tried to explain it to him it was going to make both of them feel awkward.

So he was going to be a very good, very patient, nearly fucking saintlike friend, suck it up and clumsily crab walk back into the bed of the truck to sit next to Castiel on this very much not-a-date. With the giant popcorn bucket acting as the Great Wall of No Homo between them.

Castiel dipped his fingers in the popcorn and munched as the screen flickered on and Dean managed to unwind the tiniest bit, grateful the distraction was starting. 

The six plus hours long distraction. 

This was going to be a really, really, really long night. Dean braced himself for the worst.

Twenty minutes later he was chuckling as Castiel remarked solemnly that Luke was rather whiny.

Twenty minutes after that the ex-angel said, with a note of appreciation, “All this advanced technology and the most significant battles were fought by warriors wielding magic and swords? I like the juxtaposition.”

“Yeah, that’s the coolest part of the Star Wars universe, right? The Jedi were really old school, like warrior monks, it’s awesome.” He reached into the bucket and snagged a handful of popcorn and tossed a few kernels in his mouth. Castiel’s eyes slid to his as he nodded before they were drawn back to the screen, seemingly entranced by the story playing out before him.

Dean’s gaze didn’t return to the Millennium Falcon but instead rested on Castiel’s profile.

He could hear Han Solo talking, being a snarky badass. Han was so cool. As a kid Dean thought he was even cooler than his dad. Rebellious, dangerous, hilarious, got the princess, and Harrison Ford was hot when he was young.

_Hotter in Raiders of the Lost Ark though._

__

__

_Cas has kinda got that going on too. The rugged thing._

__

__

_GODDAMNIT BRAIN!_

Dean jerked his face back to center and squinted, determined to focus on the movie, but Castiel somehow managed to draw his attention repeatedly. Sometimes it was a low comment or question, which Dean readily answered, eyes glued to the screen. Sometimes the ex-angel shifted, one time he sighed and Dean chanced a glance over at him to see Castiel’s expression subtly shifting as he watched the action unfold. 

A small upward hitch of one side of his mouth at a particularly engaging action scene. A soft huff of amusement at Princess Leia’s quip, “Aren’t you a little short to be a Stormtrooper?” The way he leaned forward during a fight between the Millennium Falcon and all those TIE fighters. The way his lips turned down when Darth Vader’s sinister breathing echoed from the speakers. 

Dean had seen these movies dozens of times, he could hardly remember how they made him feel the first time he’d seen them. Watching Castiel take it in, absorb everything with that formidable concentration and respond so...humanly? It was fascinating. Dean didn’t even realize what he was doing until Castiel’s piercing blue gaze locked with his.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring.”

Dean whipped his head back around. “Sorry,” he mumbled through a mouthful of gummi bears. “Watching Star Wars for the first time, s’like a right of passage.” He was glad it was dark because he was positive his face was getting red, his cheeks definitely felt warm. 

Stupid Star Wars, stupid Castiel, stupid crush.

... _oh jesus fucking christ!_

_**CRUSH?!?!** _

Dean choked on his popcorn. Really, truly choked and Castiel goggled at him as he pounded his chest a few times, gagging, before the ex-angel slammed a hand on his back until Dean coughed out his mouthful and bent double over his knees, the King of Smooth.

“Dean! Are you okay?” Castiel demanded, hand resting firmly on the back of his neck. 

He had to stop touching him!

“M’fine!” Dean coughed. “Leggo!” He shoved Castiel away with a sharp elbow to his side, then immediately felt like a world class dipshit at the shocked look on his friend’s face as he fell back. It wasn’t Castiel’s fault Dean was...Dean had…

“Sorry!” he said much too loudly then grabbed his open beer and managed to take a few swallows between coughs. “Sorry...should probably slow down on the snacks.” He gave Castiel what he hoped was a wry smile and, based on his friend’s expression, probably missed the mark by a mile.

“You’re acting weird. Stop it,” Castiel commanded tersely and sat back hard against the wall of the cab, arms crossed over his chest, looking put out. He spent the next few minutes casting grumpy looks at Dean, who was very, very, very fixated on the screen and not at all aware Castiel’s head turned in his direction every minute or so.

Eventually the atmosphere settled as the movie dragged them back into a galaxy far, far away. 

“Who is supposed to school Luke in the ways of the Force if Master Obi Wan is dead!?” Castiel burst out in chagrin as the rebels made their narrow escape from the Death Star. 

Dean stifled a laugh and simply said, “Keep watching.”

Half an hour later he complained, “I’m glad they destroyed the Death Star, but Darth Vader escaped and his own Master is still out there pulling his strings! I fail to see why they’re celebrating with medals. It’s premature.” The look he gave Dean seemed like he was blaming the hunter for the ending of _A New Hope_.

“Cas, it’s a cliffhanger! There’s two more movies to watch that’s explain everything, so chill out.” Dean was unable to contain his grin at his friend’s newfound passion on the subject of Star Wars.

Castiel was momentarily mollified. “At least we’re able to watch them consecutively. I imagine the wait between movies when they were originally released was annoying.”

“You think everything is annoying, Cas.”

“I think C3PO is annoying.”

“I dunno, kinda reminds me of you, Mr. Know-it-all.”

“I am offended by the comparison.” To Dean’s amazement Castiel threw a handful of popcorn at him. That set him off laughing. As long as this kept up, the back and forth, the talking about crap Dean could stick to the movie and enjoying himself with Castiel, watching him get into the Star Wars universe, and it wasn’t weird. 

As long as he didn’t think about the... **THING**.

A quick jaunt to the john and it was time for _Empire Strikes Back_. “No spoilers, but pretty much everyone agrees this is the best of the original trilogy, so buckle in, Cas.” Dean snagged the gummi bears and shrugged out of his jacket to roll it up and shove it behind his head as he slouched, closer to laying down on the sleeping bags than sitting against that truck.

A short while later Castiel watched as Han slid Luke’s hypothermic form into the steaming body cavity of the dean tauntaun. “That can’t be hygienic.” 

Thankfully Dean didn’t have anything in his mouth this time or he would have choked again, this time on laughter. 

“I like the Princess’ hair better this time. The arrangement was very odd in the first movie.” Dean didn’t shush him, if anything Castiel’s increasing commentary kept Dean as entertained as the film.

“Han’s interest in Leia is being expressed in a very juvenile fashion,” the fallen angel noted as the two characters bickered in a frozen hallway of the base. 

“Well, she’s not exactly easy to cozy up to, y’know. She’s kinda prickly. Bossy.”

“Hm,” Castiel hummed. “I understand dragging out these sorts of flirtations is supposed to add to the plot dynamic, but it’s frustrating to witness.”

Dean had to work to keep his voice light because that hit a little close to the new home he’d apparently just moved into, in a very weird neighborhood. “Yeah, yeah,” he contributed pointlessly. 

He was mindful of shoving snacks in his mouth now that he was aware of the minefield, and thank god Empire was kickass enough to give him something else to think about.

“Is Yoda’s speech pattern supposed to make him sound sage? It’s executed inconsistently, and it’s distracting.”

“Cas, if you are going to insist the thousand year old green midget alien being more realistic you’re going to be disappointed since this is **fiction** ,” Dean nagged as he reached into the popcorn bucket again. And froze because Castiel’s hand was already in there and...whew, okay he took his hand out, and Dean started breathing again.

Until he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Castiel lick butter off his fingers.

Was it his imagination or was he doing it kinda slow?

_NOPE! WATCH THE MOVIE! EYES FORWARD!_

__

__

_This is ridiculous. Settle down. You’re acting like a highschool kid or something. Man up!_

Dean Winchester was nothing if not a stubborn son of a bitch and, after giving himself a stern internal pep talk, was able to shitstomp anymore unwanted musings about the fact that he seemed to be painfully hyperaware of every shift, breath, and small sound Castiel made a few inches away. And that he definitely licked his fingers one or two more times.

Castiel carried on, oblivious to the completely silent, internal freakout unfolding in the man next to him, as he idly commented how the special effects seemed to hold up decently well for the age of the film and that Lando Calrissian was quite charismatic. That opinion quickly turned to outrage at the almost immediate betrayal to the Empire. 

“So he sold out his friends to save his own skin,” he muttered, voice full of condemnation as Han was dumped back into the prison cell after a torture session. “I hope he suffers.”

Dean’s hand lifted automatically to pat Castiel’s knee consolingly before he realized what he was doing and quickly took it back to grab another beer out of the cooler. He passed it over when his friend held out his hand and had to go in for another. 

“Pace yourself if you’re driving back, man,” he cautioned, then reminded himself to do the same. Not the best idea to get sloppy right now. 

Later, when he was alone, Dean was going to get completely blistered until he killed the brain cells responsible for his current situation.

He would have preferred, stupidly, that Castiel not be as into the movie as he was. If he’d stopped making funny comments and snarky observations that mirrored a lot of Dean’s own thoughts on Star Wars. If he just fucking knocked off looking relaxed and comfortable and increasingly horizontal, a go-bag he kept in the truck now slid under his head to work as a makeshift pillow. 

During the carbonite scene, Castiel sat up, fingers clenched tightly around his beer as Han was frozen, with no last-moment rescue and Chewbacca howled in mourning.

“Monster,” the ex-angel muttered, eyes narrowed as Vader stalked sinisterly across the screen.

Of course when Luke faced down Vader and the light saber battle got kickass Dean shifted so he could keep half an eye on the screen and the rest of his attention on Castiel’s reaction.

_**Obi-wan never told you what happened to your father.** _

_****_

_****_

_**He told me enough! He told me you killed him!** _

_****_

_****_

_**No. I am your father.** _

_****_

_****_

In Dean’s eyes, Castiel’s reaction was 100% worth the price of admission and then some. His mouth dropped open and he fumbled his beer, nearly soaking his lap, as he whipped his head around to stare at the hunter with a dumbfounded expression.

“No.” His voice was full of honest to goodness shock.

“Yes!” Dean shot back gleefully. Hell yeah, this was awesome! Practically everyone on the planet knew about this except Castiel, and watching the bomb go off was amazing.

Castiel’s gaze swung back to the screen, his eyes wide as he murmured, “He just took off his own son’s hand.”

“Sure did!” Dean nearly cackled.

“Dean! I’m not sure this is something to be happy abo-” Then Castiel gasped as Luke let go of the spire and plummeted to the depths of Cloud City.

Dean didn’t even pretend to pay attention to the rest of the movie, thoroughly enjoying Castiel’s reactions to the swift twist and turn of events as it rushed to its climactic end.

When the theme song playing rousingly as the credits rolled the ex-angel practically collapsed backwards, laying flat now and put his beer down, his expression pensive. Dean propped up on his elbows to look at him. 

“Well?”

“That was a metaphorical roller coaster of emotions.”

“And?”

Castiel rolled his head to look at the hunter. “Pretty damn good,” he said emphatically.

“Ha! Told you!” Dean held out his hand and received a clumsy high five.

“I’m eager to know what happens to Han. And how Luke will progress as a Jedi with only one hand. How did Leia hear Luke call to her? Is she a Jedi also?”

Dean grinned down at him. “Gotta keep watching, man.”

Castiel sighed, but it wasn’t a annoyed sound. “Glad there’s one more movie to go then. At least tell me after that there’s a satisfactory resolution. I’m not sure I can take another cliffhanger.”

“No spoilers,” Dean replied cheekily.

“You’re enjoying my suspense too much,” Castiel narrowed his eyes at him.

“Guilty as charged and not sorry.” He couldn’t seem to stop smiling...and then he did when he felt something flip over his his stomach at the grin Castiel gave him with a quite raspy laugh. 

“Uh, gonna hit the head again, those beers are going through me.”

Castiel pushes himself up. “Me too. I won’t have anymore since I’m driving back.” 

Dean neatly avoided the minefield that was sharing a bathroom that had two urinals with Castiel with the excuse he wanted something from the snack bar, over Castiel’s pointed remark he’d already eaten a great deal. He settled for bottled water and when he saw Castiel’s figure trekking across the lot back to the truck he ducked into the restroom himself.

Half an hour later Castiel piped up, “How much time has passed in the timeline since the end of the last movie?”

Dean shrugged, “It’s never been clear. Few months maybe? I figure a year at the most? Dunno.”

“Luke’s Jedi powers have improved markedly. He’s been training with Yoda off-screen?”

“I guess. Again, not really clear.”

“Hm. There seem to be some inconsistencies in the story so far. I’m confident they will be resolved.” Castiel nodded to himself, probably still riding a bit high from the masterpiece that was _Empire Strikes Back_.

Dean didn’t have it in him to clue Castiel in to the fact that Return of the Jedi was the weakest of the three and the gaping plot holes he’d already picked out where the least of the problems. Still it was a fun movie, if a drop from Empire.

Over the next hour Dean got down to nearly the bottom of gummi bears and turned to shake the nearly empty bag at Castiel, offering him the rest. Of course, right when the ridiculous Ewoks turned the amazing franchise into the Muppet Show Castiel had fallen asleep. 

Dean damn well knew better than to prod him awake, at the same time he was sorely tempted to risk the possible flailing fist or elbow to make sure his friend didn’t miss out. But it was Jedi, and Castiel would live if he missed the Ewoks. Besides, Dean could just rent the DVD and they could watch it later. Make fun of the Care Bears and Sam; the giant nerd had loved this movie because he had no taste and thought the Ewoks were hilarious.

Dean wound up watching Castiel instead of the screen, taking in the way the deep lines on his face smoothed out while he slept. The damn traitorous thoughts he’d mostly kept in line through the last movie bubbled up to the surface again.

 _Crap crap crap. Quit watching him while he sleeps, you stalker_.

A muscle ticked in Dean’s cheek as he recalled that time he’d woken up suddenly, in one of the million nameless motels, with flashbacks from of Hell still fresh in his mind to find Castiel, newly introduced and fairly scary Holy Pain in the Ass, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Hello, Dean.” he’d said in that gravelly voice that had sent a frisson of mild terror through the hunter back then. “What were you dreaming about?” Now that same voice was rougher than ever, but edged with familiar warmth when they spoke, often with affection, sometimes with irritation. 

Castiel hadn’t intimidated Dean in years. Sure, he’d done things that had scared Dean, but it was often because the hunter was concerned for the angel and not by him. Worried about his choices, his rash decisions, the pig-headedness that took him down horrifying paths every time he tried to fix something he broke, and often only succeeded in breaking things further.

At the end of it all, Castiel had wound up breaking himself, trusted the wrong douchey angel and been stripped of everything he’d ever been, cast down to earth to land in the mud and came crawling to the Winchesters.

But unlike every other time Castiel had wrecked something, and Dean and Sam had tried to clumsily patch together things much too big, too cosmically vast for any two humans to truly fix...Castiel wasn’t ruined this time.

He was reborn. 

Into this guy. This annoying, stubborn, determined flesh and and blood dude who played Xbox and couldn’t make mac and cheese to save his life. Who could practically shoot the wings off a fly at 50 meters and could’ve gone and made an easy life for himself with a girl and dog and a house in the suburbs. But who’d, without a second thought, wanted to hunt, to help people, stamp out the shit that goes bump in the night. 

Who’d not once hinted he was settling when he carved out a space for himself in the bunker and in Sam and Dean’s lives. He might’ve fucked off with Fox on a whim, in an effort to prove he could hack the job without the brothers at his back, but never once had he ever let them think he wasn’t coming back. That he wasn’t coming home.

That he wasn’t coming back to Dean.

The hunter shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his face at the crazy turn his thoughts had taken. Like they had all damn night.

All while he was staring at a snoozing fallen angel while C3PO jibbered in Ewokese in the background.

“What is my life?” Dean muttered as he jerked turned his face back to the screen. He felt like a total creeper staring at Castiel like that. 

The guy hardly knew how to tie his own damn shoes, just a fricking baby in a trenchcoat, and he didn’t need any of this. 

Whatever this was, this weird co-dependent, all mixed up jumble of thoughts and feelings that was going on in Dean’s head. This...this **THING** that had suddenly decided to rear its head and twist Dean’s his guts into knots...well, he’d deal with it. 

Like he always did when his head got turned around. He wasn’t going to put his bullshit on someone else when it wasn’t their fault. Castiel needed him to be a rock, steady, dependable, to help him figure out this new, messed up chapter in his long, long existence, and Dean was going to do that. 

Despite their lives, and how incredibly fucked up they’d been over the years, Dean liked to think he’d not done a half bad job with Sam. He would do the same for Castiel.

Dean would...he would just button it up, stuff this **THING** way down deep, and not pile anything else on Castiel’s already overflowing plate. The guy deserved a break for once.

Dean scooted down to sit on the tailgate, boots scuffing the gravel, his fingers curled over the cool metal and gripping hard. He didn’t even know what was unfolding on screen anymore. All he saw was, when he glanced over his shoulder, was Castiel muttering something indistinct in his sleep before he rolled to the side, face crushed into the jacket the hunter had abandoned in the truck bed when he moved away. One arm slid up to curl into the space the hunter had just occupied and the ex-angel settled, face pressed into warm leather.

Something terrifyingly warm, and not altogether foreign, welled up in the hunter at the sight and he hung his head.

“Aw hell.”


	21. So there's a THING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well this certainly took over 2 months to update. Sorry, I wrapped up another fic for Black Butler then went down a Voltron hole, so damn these fandoms.
> 
> This chapter might have gotten a little away from me and ranged a little further afield than I originally intended, but hopefully you'll enjoy it!
> 
> Oh, just in time for Valentine's Day! Or unattached drafter Christmas.
> 
> P.S. Yes, a lot of typose, I always catch them after I post, I'll fix them up later!
> 
> P.S. I totally suck at chapter titles

“Ow! What the-”

“You know what that was for,” Dean muttered as he roughly shouldered his brother out of the way in the kitchen the following morning, practically knocking Sam into the wall.

Sam had the temerity to not look remotely sorry as he rubbed his shoulder. “Had a nice time, huh?”

“I will fucking piss in your shampoo,” the elder Winchester warned.

“Grow up, Dean,” Sam scoffed, not at all worried. He would, of course, sniff his shampoo and conditioner before using it forever now. He also decided poking this particular bear much more, considering his brother was only now tackling his first cup of coffee, was a bit too sadistic even for him, so he kept his next comment fairly neutral. “Did he at least like the movies?”

“Yeah, he liked ‘em fine,” Dean replied. That was an understatement, Castiel had really enjoyed them, despite sacking out in the middle of Jedi. He’d wakened when the credits were running and only then because Dean smacked his foot a few times from his seat on the tailgate, well out of striking range if the ex-angel woke up with a jolt and a flying fist. “Didn’t make it through the third though. Crashed.” Dean was aware he was biting off his responses, but he wasn’t feeling particularly chatty with his asshole brother. Sam could suck a dick and eat cold cereal while Dean made himself a bacon, egg, and cheese toast sandwich for breakfast.

And he was not thinking about dicks.

He was halfway through pulling together his second toaster when Castiel stumbled in, still looking bleary eyed for a guy who slept through half a movie, then immediately sacked out again when they got home, pulling in nearly 10 hours. Dean hunched at the stove, poking at his egg, and quite deliberately did not notice his friend leaning over to swipe milk from the fridge to dump into his coffee, which he slugging down immediately. Dean suspected if Castiel could get away with walking around with a coffee IV he would.

“Looks good,” the ex-angel grunted as the plate with Dean’s first sandwich disappeared from his elbow.

“Hey!” he said sharply. Much more sharply than he intended and clearly more than breakfast theft warranted, given the way Sam and Castiel both stared at him

“...s’over medium,” Dean supplied lamely as he turned back to the pan to break the yolk and start scrambling what he had in the pan. If he got a little violent with it when Sam snickered, that was his asshole brother’s fault.

“Oh...thank you.” Castiel placed the plate back where it belonged and leaned his hip against the counter, one arm wrapped around his waist the other holding his mug up to his face once more. “I don’t like them runny.” 

Dean shifted uncomfortably at the soft way Castiel was speaking, a little lower than usual, the way you talk if you don’t want the big nosy asshole brother over there eavesdropping.

“You bitched enough I got it the first time,” he responded brusquely.

For some reason that made the ex-angel laugh, or what passed for his laugh, which was some throaty noise that accompanied a stupid smile that made his nose wrinkle. It was a dumb laugh and his smile was weird, too gummy, and made him look different. Dean was more used to him frowning or pulling that infuriating stony expression. 

He slapped Castiel’s sandwich together and plopped it on a new plate, before he quickly shoved everything to the off burners and sat with a thump on the opposite side of the table. Dean snatched his phone up and proceeded to open a news app, eyes absolutely fixed on the headlines as he slowly ate one handed.

_What the fuck was there even...why on earth..there’s isn’t anything to like about Castiel._

__

_Like... **LIKE** like._

Dean huffed to himself for thinking like a damned teenager or something. 

_**Like** like? I’m a fucking idiot. This is the result of too taking too many headshots hunting._

Something was seriously wrong with him. Castiel was the grumpiest son of a bitch he’d ever met, and had become more so once he became human. He was infuriatingly stubborn, completely hopeless in the kitchen, had mood swings that would make Mommy Dearest jealous, and that cowlick that made his hair stick up in the back was really starting to piss Dean off.

Castiel always looked exhausted no matter how much he slept, the bags under his eyes apparently permanent. When he dug his heels in on something he got the most ridiculous, prissy look on his face like how dare you contradict him. Didn’t you know he was a billion years old and knew everything? The ex-angel was wildly inconsistent about shit, fussy about his guns but sloppy about cleaning his edged weapons. Apparently angel blades were self-cleaning or some stupid crap, so naturally he forgot to wipe gore and shit off his regular knives too. He bit Dean and Sam’s damn heads off for not putting books back correctly in the library but his room had them scattered all over, some on the floor. And don’t even get Dean started on the **GODDAMN TRAIL OF PAPER TOWELS.**

Yeah, there was a whole laundry list of reasons to not like Castiel, and Dean was starting to alphabetize them in his head.

“No, no, Sam you don’t understand, Vader was his _father_.” Castiel was looking at the younger Winchester with such an earnest look on his face empathy mixed with frustration that Sam didn’t seem to get how incredibly shocking and vital this piece of information was.

...and Dean was right back to crushing like an awkward teen.

_No, jesus christ, pull it together and stop with the Hallmark special thoughts!_

But it was a bit of a lost cause as he listened to Castiel relate to Sam all the part he enjoyed most about the movies, along with a couple of dry observations on parts or characters he found irksome, like C3PO. He was so into it, it was practically impossible for Dean not to lose his focus on the news and instead listen to his friend wax rhapsodic about the movies. 

“Of course I need to re-watch Return of the Jedi as I missed at least half the movie because **someone** did not nudge me awake.” He shot a meaningful look in Dean’s direction.

“Hey,” he defended with a raised hand, “You looked tired. Well, you always look tired.” Dean smirked at the affronted look Castiel gave him before rising to freshen his mug. The ex-angel made a point to drain the last of the pot and stare at the elder Winchester quite fixedly as he put it back empty, clearly breaking the “you finish it you start a new pot” rule.

“Dick move, Cas.”

His friend gave him a haughty look at he left the kitchen, which prompted a chuckle from the hunter. Castiel’s petty sense of humor was something else. When Dean caught Sam giving him a sly look he immediately schooled his expression and flipped his brother off..

_Frigging fine. Whatever. Not like it matters, never gonna say anything._

There. Simple enough. As long as this strange, unsettling notion resided only in Dean’s head there was no harm in it, well at least not a lot.

It wasn’t like it was Castiel’s fault Dean had his wires crossed or something. Probably just the result of spending more time with the ex-angel in the last year then he’d spent around the guy in all the time they’d known each other. Familiarity breeds contempt and stupid, irritating feelings, apparently. As long as he didn’t say anything it would be fine, and this ridiculous crush thing would die a natural death from neglect.

Like that one time he tried to have a plant.

Unfortunately for Dean, working quite hard to not act like anything was different and keeping Castiel in the dark about his recently recognized, inconvenient, and extremely dumbass sentiment, meant the ex-angel kept doing stuff!

Like announcing one day he was fed up listening to Sam and Dean both mutter about being bored when the lag between cases was too long. He summarily dragged them out to the field behind the bunker to get in some shooting, which turned into the deadly firepower equivalent of H.O.R.S.E.. They began placing bets that Dean couldn’t knock a can off a fence using his .38 in his non-dominant hand, or Sam had to keep his balance on one foot while using one of the long guns that had a mean recoil. Castiel impressed them both by lying on the ground to tip his head backwards and hit the target 110 yards away upside down, first with his Sig then his favorite rifle.

_C’mon, who doesn’t find expertise with ordnance kinda hot?_

Whatever, it was cool! And useful. And it made Dean feel pretty good he and Sam had done such a good job schooling Castiel up on weapons.

Not the safest way to while away the time, but it was a hell of an afternoon. Especially when it ended with all 3 of then perched on the fence edging the property and sucking down a few beers while watching the sun lower and generally trading hunting stories. Castiel’s store was admittedly thin, so the brothers were both amused by a couple of anecdotes about the days of the Tower of Babel and Sodom and Gomorrah.Turns out ye olden days were just as fucked up as the modern era.

If Dean chuckled a little more boisterously than his brother at the ex-angel’s awkward tale-telling style, then what the fuck ever. The guy’s sense of humor was dry as the Gobi desert and it made a lot of the most serious shit sound hilarious.

Another time Castiel demanded a driving lesson, specifically off-roading because he wasn’t sure how to use the 4 wheel drive option on his truck. 

“I doubt I can rely on every hunt being conveniently located off a major highway,” he pointed out quite seriously.

“Dibs!” Sam yelled before Dean could. 

“Hey! No dibs, dickhead!”

“Screw you. I’m the one who gives him driving lessons!” Sam playfully shoved his brother out of the way as he made a beeline for the garage.

“Sam is correct,” Castiel added mildly. Then he got a look at the glower on the elder hunter’s face. “...ah, Sam, actually Dean’s right, you know dibs isn’t allowed.”

Dean smiled sunnily at the ex-angel then a bit more viciously at his brother as they proceeded toe rock-paper-scissors nearly a dozen times before Sam still won, despite his brother’s attempt to change things up by playing something other than scissors.

Regardless, THAT had been fun. It rained hard the day before and the dirt roads ringing Lebanon were still kind of sloppy, so Castiel got a first hand demonstration in the fine art of “mudding.” Dean even tolerated being relegated to the back seat of the crew cab as Sam got the ex-angel started with a little bumping down a rutted road before directing him towards the marshy land on the east side of the county where things got epically dirty. At one point Dean thought they might need to magically slap a snorkel modification on the truck to escape the bog, but Castiel picked up navigating through the marsh quickly, just like he did the rest of driving. 

Castiel seemed to enjoyed himself after he got over his initial trepidation about dirtying his truck, the brothers’ infectious whoops as the truck gunned through a deep puddle to throw dirty water up all the windows and the windshield contagious.

Of course, when they returned home he demanded they help him clean his vehicle. Sam put up a bit more resistance than his brother, who’d learned by now the only way to make Castiel stop bitching was to either cave immediately or leave the bunker so you simply didn’t hear him. When Castiel returned with rags, buckets and Armor-All auto wash in basketball shorts, of all things, Dean nearly reconsidered the whole vacating the premises idea.

Yeah, the whole let the crush die a natural death plan wasn’t going very well, considering Castiel was...being Castiel. The jackass was a good hunter, funny is a deadpan way, and enjoyable to be around. Even when he was being a grumpy asshole, or unreasonably competitive in Call of Duty, he was still better than the majority of the people Dean had ever interacted with, and the absolute worst part of it was...Dean found himself noticing him.

Sure, he’d always been aware of Castiel before; it was sort of impossible not to considering the guy stood way too close and stared a lot without blinking nearly as much as regular people

No, Dean had started _noticing_ him. Like...physical stuff.

“Earth to Dean.”

Castiel had filled out; all that hunting and the stupid running every day and working out with Sam like a couple of ‘roid heads had put some solid muscle on him. And he was really tan. The dark blue t-shirt he was wearing stretched tight over his broad shoulders.

A hand waved in front of the elder Winchester’s face and snapped him out of staring at Castiel’s back as the ex-angel leaned over the other table, taking a digital snap of a dusty codex, page-by-page, to upload to Charlie’s online hunter’s archive.

“Huh?”

“The Batutut?”

Dean blinked and looked over at his brother.

“A what what?”

Sam’s bitchface approached legendary proportions. “Ba-tat-ut. What I’ve been talking about for the last 5 minutes? The South Carolina case referred to us? Ring any bells?”

Dean’s expression easily slid into the patronizing smirk that always riled his brother up. “Nope, leaving the nerd stuff to you, nerd.”

“Dean,” Castiel said firmly without raising his head from his work or turning to address the Winchesters, “You’ve half a dozen entries in your journal on imported cryptids from Southeast Asia.”

“Ha! Who’s the nerd now?” Sam razzed as he flapped his hand at his brother while Dean huffed and slid his journal over to flip through the pages to find the mentioned entries..

“Telling on me, Cas? That’s low.”

”I dislike it when you undersell your intellect,” the ex-angel replied without looking at either brother as continued his work. 

The elder hunter glued his eyes on the pages in front of him and refused to acknowledge he felt his face warm. “Shut up.” he grumbled without any heat.

“Unlikely,” Castiel retorted primly as he flipped the codex closed once he snapped the last page and passed by the hunter to slip it back onto the shelf. “As long as you insist on pretending you are the mindless brawn to our brains-” He flicked a finger between himself and Sam, “I’m going to continue to call you on your crap. Deal with it.” He lightly thumped Dean on the head with a Tamil bestiary before he returned to his task of scanning yet another part of the library.

Dean kept his eyes glued on the pages of his journal, even if he wasn’t seeing a thing written on them, as his brother snickered across the table. 

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Fuss at the guy for giving him a compliment? Sort of?

“He’s got your number,” Sam chuckled.

“Well, you’ve got...your number…” he muttered.

That got an even bigger laugh out of his little brother and even Castiel made a rough noise of amusement at the older hunter’s spectacular fail at a comeback. Whatever! So his game was a little off, he’d never been comfortable with Castiel saying excessively generous things about him, like he wasn’t a borderline psychopath with a job that let him pretend he was a good guy.

_You don’t think you deserve to be saved. You’re wrong._

__

__

_I rebelled, and I did all of it for you._

__

__

_It’s a good thing you’re aesthetically pleasing._

Well, he was fine with the last one. Dean knew he was good looking, even with a few more miles on him than he’d had when they first met. 

Okay, he **really** needed to stop thinking about this; it was fucking up the plan to ignore the thing until it went away. 

Dean blew out his breath in a protracted huff he bent his head to fix his concentration on his journal, then to snag the bestiary from Castiel when he was at a decent stopping point in his task. By evening they’d determined a Batutut could be stopped with a yew stake to a vital organ like the heart or brain. The tricky part was getting it through the creature’s deeply muscled form, which also had an unusually dense skeletal structure.

“Yeah, not a fan of idea of getting within stabbing distance of this thing,” Sam pointed out as the three of them watched a green night-vision-lit video sent to them by Garth. It had been shot with a remote wildlife observation camera set up in Stumphole Swamp. 

“The terrain it inhabits is also a concern,” Castiel frowned, a finger rubbing at his lower lip as he squinted at the laptop. Dean 100% did not notice his lips looked a little chapped.

Dean watched the massive, almost ape-like figure lumber past the camera, dragging an either unconscious or dead hiker by one ankle behind it. “Crossbow. Have to make the yew bolts ourselves, tip them with tungsten to pierce the muscle wall. Compound bow might work too, but I’d go with the bolt since it’s been a long fucking time since I used a bow. And it’s got more stopping power..” 

Sam pushed back from the library table. “I’ll check the Men’s storage rooms, see if we have anything like that.”

Castiel likewise stood. “I’ll load the truck. Dean, do we have what you need or do we need to pick anything up on the way to South Carolina?”

“Lemme check my ammo supplies, see how much tungsten’s on hand, and I’ll let you know.” Relieved to have a plan in motion, and a reason to get away from Castiel for a few minutes, Dean hurried to the workshop next to the indoor gun range where they made their own specialty bullets and rock salt rounds.

Two hours later they were on the road, the three of them in Castiel’s truck, over Dean’s protests at leaving Baby behind.

“If we take shifts we can get there in 15 hours,” Sam pointed out. “If we split up it’s gonna take longer, and if we’re going in that swamp we can’t use the Impala.”

“If it makes you feel better, you can pick the music even when you’re not driving,” Castiel offered as he threw Dean’s carry-all into the truck bed, unphased by the hunter’s mulish expression.

“Don’t give him that kind of power!” Sam protested.

“...fine, when I drive then.”

“Don’t need to bribe me like a spoiled kid, Cas,” Dean grumbled. But he didn’t exactly decline the offer either. Anything to escape Castiel’s incomprehensibly eclectic musical choices. Although the ex-angel had downloaded Queen’s entire Live at Wembley show to his phone and that was a kickass to play through the Chevy’s awesome sound system.

The following day Dean was the one cajoling a disgruntled former celestial being when Castiel attempted to put his foot down regarding the motel selection.

“There’s a perfectly serviceable and **cleaner** establishment down the road.”

“Cas, we’re gonna be smelting metal to make those tungsten tips, we can’t afford to have a smoke detector go off and the fire department show up. Or the cops,” Dean argued even as he unloaded the small Lee Pro pot with fuel canister for casting, which would be set up in the grimy tub with the bathroom window open as he worked. It was his one consideration to safety, besides the goggles, thick gloves, and a t-shirt tied over his face against the fumes. Hunters didn’t always have the luxury of proper ventilation and safety gear, or ever. It wasn’t like he expected to live long enough to die of lung damage.

“Look, you pick the next place okay? Holiday Inn, Hilton, I don’t give a damn, but I gotta work here, alright?” He gave Castiel his best impression of an imploring look, something he rarely did, usually just barking his way through a situation rather than negotiating. Well, he used to; damn ex-angel had softened some of his edges, without his noticing.

Castiel sighed with a rueful expression. “Acceptable. Now, show me what you are doing, this is something I need to learn.” Perched on the toilet lid, a t-shirt over his own mouth and nose, he listened attentively as Dean explained the process of casting jackets, skipping over the fact that he was breaking about 15 safety guidelines because neither one of them gave a shit. If this fleabag hotel had a cleaning service they were going to be super pissed when the hunters checked out.

But it was nice, chilling, making up some specialty weapons, answering Castiel’s probing questions about the process. Dean wasn’t too proud to admit it was fun teaching Castiel one more new thing. He was a quick study on most aspects of weaponry, and he could already tell the man was itching to try making his own bullets and jackets when they got home.

Of course, the following morning the complaining started up again, two hours past sunrise and about a mile into the swamp. Of course, this time it was justified as the three of them trudged through brackish water as they were slowly eaten alive by the stubborn mosquitoes of South Carolina that didn’t give a shit it was October and they should have fucking died already.

“I don’t like this,” Castiel muttered, crossbow at the ready position as he watched Sam’s back while the taller hunter took point position, following the trail of broken tree limbs and the occasional scrap of fabric torn from the latest victim as they were dragged off by the batutut.

“None of us are loving it...fuck!” Dean hissed as he slapped the side of his neck as he held vanguard, his own weapon slowly swinging back and forth as he covered their backs. The bestial roar they’d heard 15 minutes earlier, unlike anything they’d ever encountered, had the men’s hackles up.

“Alright, I **really** don’t like this,” Castiel reiterated as his eyes darted around in the dim swamp, from the Spanish moss draped trees overhead working hard to block light from reaching the ground, to the black water swirling around them, to the brothers on either side of him.

“Yeah, got it, Cas,” Sam said tightly as he lifted a hand to bat some vines out of the way. The ex-angel flinched sharply when one of them brushed his cheek as he passed. Dean kept one eye on the not-at-all reassuringly gloomy surroundings and another on Castiel’s back.

He seemed really twitchy. He was generally bad tempered, impatient, often rude, sure. But he was usually steady as fuck on a job, nerves of steel. When something snapped, a twig or branch, the ex-angel swung around so quickly he nearly hit the elder Winchester in the face with the crossbow’s limb. Dean quickly clamped a hand over the weapon and shoved it down. 

“Careful!”

“Sorry!” Castiel shot back.

“You alright, man?” Dean said lowly once he got a look at just how wide Castiel’s eyes were, white showing nearly all the way around the bright blue.

“Fine. I’m fine. I don’t...I don’t like this place. It’s unsettling in a way I can’t really elucidate.” He eyed the dark water swirling around their thighs.

For some reason his friend seemed rattled, and that wasn’t something he’d ever seen in Castiel’s face. Even when facing down Armageddon itself he’d blithely suggested they get wasted and wait for the “inevitable blast wave.” But this was something else...he looked around, then back at the ex-angel and had a sudden flash of Castiel, dripping with Leviathan goo, as he stumbled into that reservoir and disappeared.

“Maybe you should go back to the tru-” The venomous look Castiel shot him caused the rest of that suggestion to shrivel up on his tongue. “Fine, just watch where you’re pointing that thing. I don’t need to be pulling an arrow outta Sam’s ass.”

Castiel muttered something and kept moving, his weapon now pointed up at the sky in acknowledgement of the hunter’s warning.

“I know the goat fucker thing now,” Dean retorted and stepped over a large cypress root as they wound their way further into the swamp.

Two hours later the hunt was a complete and utter shitshow, as they often turned out to be. Dean was the one who jumped and nearly shot his brother when the monster crashed through the brush unexpectedly and took a swipe at the hunters.

“Fan out! Surround it!” Sam shouted after he shook off the heart-stopping jolt of a bolt burying itself in a tree inches away from his neck. Doing exactly that was much easier said than done, slogging as they were through the thigh deep muddy water, full of unseen impediments that tripped them up.

Castiel took the brunt of the first charge and slammed into the trunk of a thick cottonwood with a grunt, but he hung onto his weapon and managed to slam the butt of it into the creature’s foul face. It jerked away with a pained noise, its burning yellow eyes landing on Sam. When it lurched in his direction, Dean and Castiel both loosed bolts into its back where they thudded harmlessly against the thick matted hair and dropped into the brackish water to disappear.

“Shit! Sam, we gotta hit it closer to penetrate!” Dean shouted at his brother, for all the good it did when the younger Winchester’s weapon went flying as he was tossed ass over teakettle to land yards away with a splash.

“No!” Castiel cried out as the monster charged again at the younger Winchester and shoved him under the water. Mud and debris churned as the two other hunters threw themselves at the creature, and Dean crashed the butt of his own weapon repeatedly into the batutut’s skull, which seemed to only infuriate the beast as it turned on him. 

A moment later the hunter screamed as jagged teeth clamped into his shoulder and shook him with a hard, snapping motion of its head.

Castiel’s shouted something unintelligible, nothing but a short, sharp bark of fear and fury as he pressed his crossbow against the monster’s neck and fired. It dropped the elder hunter instantly and both misshapen hands rose to claw at the fletching sticking out from under its jaw. Sam burst from under the water with a hoarse gasp and immediately scrambled away while spitting out murky water.

“Holy shit...ow…”Dean gasped as he staggered back, hand clamped over his mangled shoulder as he looked wildly around for his crossbow lost somewhere in the mire. 

“Shoot it, Sam! Shoot it!” Castiel tried to yell over the monster’s agonized roars as he slammed another bolt into his weapon, but didn’t manage to get out of the way when the blinded beast crashed into him. They both went down into the swampy soup, Castiel’s weapon firing one more time to send a bolt into the creature’s soft belly as it landed In top of him and they both disappeared under the scummy surface.

“CAS!” Both brothers hollered as they staggered forwards, Dean giving up on the lost weapon and drawing the demon killing knife instead. It it might not kill this furry bastard it could still hurt. And he hoped it did when he drove it into the hairy back as it emerged from the water. 

“Mother! Fucker! Just! Die!” he shouted with each stab as Sam tried to wrestle it up and off the ex-angel pinned under it. 

When the batutut reared up from the water with a burbling growl the younger Winchester shot it in the chest point blank and didn’t bother to reload, electing instead to snatch another bolt from the rack and slam it into the monster’s eye with his hand. With a combined shout both brothers threw their shoulders into the creature and toppled it backwards into the water, where it finally lay still.

“Oh my god,” Dean panted as he fell back on his ass, muddy water and blood streaming over his arms from both his own wounds and the monster’s. “Fuck, Cas!”

He turned to see his brother already dragging Castiel out of the water, the ex-angel disturbingly limp in his grip, not growling or shoving out of his grasp with a proud look. “Sam! Sam, is he okay?!” 

“He’s breathing!” Sam yelled, dragging the senseless hunter onto the closest patch of dry, or just not-completely soaked, ground and rolled him onto his side as Dean crashed to his knees beside them. Sam slammed his hand on Castiel’s back repeatedly until he coughed and brackish water poured from his mouth and nose. Dean sighed mightily in relief as the man gagged on the ground and cupped a hand under Castiel’s head to lift it from the mud.

“Alright, Cas, get it out,” he coaxed. The two brothers hovered over the ex-angel a few minutes until he expelled most of the water he’d swallowed, and his eyes fluttered open briefly.

“Dean, we gotta get outta here. Your shoulder,” Sam urged.

“Give it a second!” he barked at his brother; he ignored the searing pain in his arm to attempt to haul Castiel to a sitting position unsuccessfully. Sam looped the ex-angel’s other arm around his neck and managed to drag them both upright. 

The brothers waded a dozen feet before Castiel croaked, “H-hiker…”

“Cas, c’moooon,” Dean complained breathlessly, but he was relieved beyond measure his friend was speaking, even if his head still hung low and his tips of his boots dragged through the muck as the brothers gracelessly struggled through the water and mud in the direction they left the truck.

Sam looked at his older brother over the bedraggled ex-angel’s slumped form, his eyes wide in realization. “Can you get him back on your own? We can’t leave if there’s a chance…”

Dean gave him a grim look but firmed his good arm around Castiel’s waist. “Yeah, go. Pointless if we did all this just to leave some poor sap here, I got him.” 

Sam gave the two of them a worried look but nodded sharply then turned, notching another bolt in his weapon before he headed back along the trail, stepping wide around the unmoving form of the dead batutut now sinking into the dark water.

“Ok, c’mon...shit c’mon, c’mon, Cas,” Dean cajoled. “One foot in front of the other, need a little help here, man,” he said with forced gruffness in his voice as he slogged through the swamp, practically dragging his half-conscious friend. Castiel managed to rouse, if from nothing else than the fact Dean nearly dropped him twice as he struggled to get them over the massive cypress roots that snaked through the swamp.

The ex-angel coughed repeatedly, deep, wet sounding heaves that wracked his frame, and spit into the water around their thighs as he finally managed to lift his head.

Castiel looked around blearily before his gaze focused on Dean. “That sucked.”

The elder Winchester paused mid-step as he goggled at Castiel’s mud-streaked face. What an understatement. “Sure did. Christ, scare me to death why don’t you,” he chided as they clung to each other when they stumbled into a deeper pool and found themselves floundering in water over their waists. 

The ex-angel managed to gain his feet first, albeit unsteadily and grabbed a heavy branch hanging over the water to tug them towards firmer ground. “Your shoulder’s a mess.”

“Yeah, well you almost drowned, so it must be Tuesday,” Dean bitched as they finally gained solid earth and promptly tripped over another root system, which both of them roundly cursed.

“No more swamps,” Castiel vowed.

“No more ape-things with giant teeth,” Dean concurred.

“...I don’t know how to swim.”

“Put that on the list of shit it would’ve been nice to know yesterday, Cas,” the hunter grumbled as they batted through the underbrush until they finally found the trail they’d started on.

When they finally reached the truck the two men slumped against the side of it. “You’re going to clean that blood off the paint, right?” Castiel said joked thinly as he rolled his head to look over at the hunter.

Dean laughed, a brittle dry thing, “Right after I finish bleeding...son of a bitch.” He rolled his damaged shoulder experimentally and hissed when he couldn’t raise his arm more than a few inches. Castiel wobbled to the back of the truck and managed to bang the tailgate down before he practically flopped into the bed to fish for the first aid kit. Dean winced in sympathy as he listened to the ex-angel continue to cough raggedly and tried to shrug out of his filthy jacket to get a better look at his arm.

“Stop that, you’ll make it worse,” Castiel rasped as he waved Dean over to the tailgate where the hunter sat as his friend used scissors to cut his jacket then shirt away before pushing a bottle of water and some pills on him. 

“I got them from your bag so I assume they’re the good stuff.”

Dean used his good forearm to swipe at his face and squinted at the pills. “Think these are the Percoset...or Vicodin...who cares?” He tossed back two, then a third for luck, and washed it down with a few swallows of water before he looked as Castiel’s mud streaked form.

“Hey, hey, clean yourself up before you go poking at me.” The ex-angel paused, blinking uncertainly at Dean’s shoulder, before he shook off of his own soaked jacket to let it drop to the ground. Castiel took Dean’s water bottle pour over his own face and hands, scrubbing to get them something approaching clean.

He dumped another bottle of water over Dean’s shoulder, ignoring the hunter’s grunt of discomfort, then stared...and continued to stare at the ragged bite marks than went down to the muscle in a couple of places. The bite radius was 9 inches across and,where the batutut had ripped his mouth free when Castiel shot it in the neck, there were deep scores along the hunter’s shoulder blade. Thankfully it was on the opposite arm from the Malachim tattoo, otherwise its protection would break.

“Dean...this is...more than I know how to...I don’t….” Castiel’s wide eyes skipped to the hunter’s face. 

The elder Winchester forced a tight smile and said as evenly as he could, considering that now that the adrenalin was wearing off it was starting to hurt like CRAZY, “Clean it out best you can, Cas. Keep rinsing it, Sam’ll do the patch job when he gets back.” 

Yeah, right. Sammy knew how to sew up some shit and pop shoulders back in but this was a bit bigger than the brothers could usually handle on their own. It was one thing to stitch up a neat knife slice or even a couple of claw marks’ it was another to tackle the hamburger that was Dean’s shoulder. This was going to require a hell of a lot more work than any of them could handle, but there was no need to freak Castiel out with that knowledge.

“Hey, c’mon, you know I’ve had worse,” Dean said with forced lightness in an effort to get that increasingly agitated look off Castiel’s face.

“When I could heal you!” the ex-angel retorted, a sharp note in his voice. Dean noticed his hands shook minutely as he clutched the white metal box.

“Cas! Calm down, c’mon, me and Sam have taken lumps like this when you weren’t around too. Take more than a sasquatch to gank me.”

“Batutut,” the Castiel automatically corrected even as he thumped the aid kit down and flipped it open to pull out the antiseptic and dressings.

“Right. That ugly fucker. I survived the Apocalypse, a shotgun blast right to the chest, and a couple of trips upstairs. This is nothing.” He waved his good hand around as though dismissing the fact that his entire left side was soaked in his own blood, and he almost bought his own shit.

_Jesus, this hurts, the pills need to kick in quick._

“Ok...ok...fair enough. But I’d appre-” Castiel broke off to turn away and cough again, bending nearly double this time.

“Take it easy. You inhaled some water. Breathe.”

Castiel must be feeling okay if he had enough in him to fix Dean with a look that plainly said _**I AM breathing, assbutt!**_

When the ex-angel managed to get his hacking under control, Dean grit his teeth as talked him through washing out his wounds and at least trying to debride it.

The hydrogen peroxide wasn’t too bad, but when the rubbing alcohol was poured over his shoulder Dean shouted reflexively and banged his good fist down on the tailgate.

“Sorry,” was all Castiel offered through his own gritted teeth as he pressed a large gauze pad against the deepest of the gouges. “I have to keep pressure on.” He might have been saying it more to himself than the injured hunter. 

Dean’s head dropped down when he nodded weakly. The pad was soaked through quickly and the ex-angel was uncertain if he should change it out or keep it pressed hard to the hunter’s shoulder in what was becoming an increasingly vain attempt to keep him from bleeding excessively.

“Doing fine. Sam’ll be back soon.” Another consolation, to whom it wasn’t clear. “Ah, fuck, don’t-” Dean protested when he saw Castiel reach for the pint of emergency hooch kept in the kit too. He **really** didn’t want that poured on his shoulder.

“It’s not for you,” Castiel muttered before tipping it up to take two very long swallows before promptly being wracked by another coughing fit. He at least had the decency to turn his face away so he didn’t do it in the hunter’s face.

It was nearly 2 hours before they heard Sam calling their names. By then Castiel had gone through more than half the gauze in the kit and had resorted to using one of Dean’s flannel shirts from his bag as a tie around his shoulder to keep the dressings in place. By now Dean was reeling from the one-two punch of opioids and blood loss.

“Sam! Here!” Castiel shouted, his usually gravelly voice hitting a higher pitch; he’d spent the last hour increasingly concerned about Dean’s pallor. The one small mercy was that the painkillers had done their job and Dean didn’t appear to be hurting. Conversely, he didn’t appear to be entirely lucid.

“No sleeping, wake up,” Castiel lightly slapped the hunter’s cheek when his eyes closed and his head dipped down loosely.

“Gerroff,” the hunter slurred, “I know...quit b’bying me.” He attempted to push Castiel’s his hand away but overbalanced and wound up thunking his head into the ex-angel’s shoulder. 

The muddy hunter sighed and curled a hand around the back of Dean’s neck to keep him there so he didn’t keel over. 

“Are you ever not contrary?” The only answer he got as a muzzy grumble from the woozy hunter.

Sam appeared soon enough, jogging down the deer track alone. He shook his head grimly at Castiel as he drew up to the truck, and the other hunter pressed his lips together in a tight line.

Sometimes they couldn’t save everyone...or anyone. 

Sam quickly assessed his brother, then helped Castiel bundle him into the back seat of the truck, long legs splayed over the seat and his head lolled against window.

“He doesn’t look great.” 

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the ex-angel agreed. “He said you can patch him up, but I believe he was exaggerating.”

It wasn’t a question, and Sam didn’t patronize Castiel with his response. “We’re gonna need a pro, his shoulder’s too messed up.” 

Sam’s concern increased when Castiel doubled over with another bout of deep, wracking, wet coughs. “Gimme the keys, you keep an eye on him.” Unlike his brother, Castiel didn’t hesitate to hand over his keys to his car and quickly clambered into the passenger seat as Sam slid behind the wheel.

Once they got back on the main road, Sam speedily flicked through his contacts as Castiel twisted in his seat, eyes fixed on the suspiciously quiet hunter’s slack face behind them.

“Garth!” Sam said a bit too loudly when the phone picked up. “...what? No...I...Garth, not a social call. We need a doctor in South Carolina who won’t ask questions…Yeah...not terrible but more than we can do ourselves...Dean got mauled…Cas-”

“I’m fine!” the ex-angel said vehemently as he leaned into the back seat when Dean groaned as they turned a corner. 

Sam shot him a bitchface the ex-angel ignored. “He’s pissy so he’ll live...but yeah, we need someone, a paramedic, nurse, I don’t care...his arm, if it was his face he’d ask me to take him out back and shoot him,” he joked darkly with the usually cheery hunter on the other line, whose voice had turned more serious.

“We can hit Atlanta in about 4 hours.” Castiel made an outraged noise and Sam quickly amended. “But closer is better. Dean’s looking pretty pale.” The fact that his brother wasn’t kicking up a fuss from the back seat was a concern too. “...okay...okay...yeah got it, thanks Garth!” 

Sam quickly hung up and smacked Castiel in the shoulder to get his attention. “He knows someone in Columbia; it’s an hour away, just keep him awake.” 

His eyes widened when Castiel immediately unbuckled and clambered between the seats to squeeze into the back. Ok, maybe a bit of an overreaction, but that was sort of par for the course with Castiel and his brother. Sam flicked his eyes to the rearview once to see the ex-angel crowding into Dean, one hand pressed against the wound on his shoulder, the other curled protectively along his jaw to rouse him.

The hunter’s lids slowly raised as though fighting a great weight. “Nnn...Cas?”

The ex-angel’s face was stoic in a way that people achieved when they were working quite hard not to look anxious; it was forced. “Sam’s back, he’s taking you to a doctor.”

“No d’ctor…” he attempted to sit up and was easily bullied back down my his friend’s hand to the center of his bare chest. Dean blinked down at it. 

“Yes doctor,” Castiel said firmly. “You’re out voted, and I **will** kick your anemic ass if you fight us on this.”

Sam quietly died of second-hand embarrassment when his brother’s blurry voiced laughed, “Talkin’ ‘bout my ass, Cas.”

“I’m not talking about your...nevermind,” Castiel huffed. “Dean, please.”

The hunter groaned when the ex-angel went for the kill with that. “F’ne...big w’rry wart. Gimme a doct’r.” His head canted to the side and the loopy hunter’s cheek nuzzled into Castiel’s hand, eyes closing again.

“Thank you,” Castiel replied primly even as his hand froze under the scratch of Dean’s stubble against his palm.

Sam concentrated on driving quickly, and tuning out the continued hushed murmurs from the ex-angel in the backseat. Tempting as it was to floor it he didn’t want to draw attention and risk getting pulled over. There would be a lot of inconvenient questions about the bloody guy in the back seat; still, he managed to get them to Columbia in about 45 minutes.

Castiel glanced up at the sign, then at Sam, with a skeptical expression. They’d left Dean in the truck as they went to get the lay of the land with the unfamiliar physician.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Cas,” Sam reminded him as he pushed open the door of the small veterinary clinic. 

A bald headed black man with a pleasantly bland face greeted them. “Afternoon gentlemen, do you have an appointment?” His dark eyes skipped over their bedraggled, dirty appearance with hardly a pause.

The hunters traded glances before Sam asked, “Are you Dr. Deaton? Garth Fitzgerald recommended you.”

There was a rather long pause, long enough for Castiel’s fingers to twitch minutely, as though he were tempted to draw a weapon and force the man to respond or offer assistance.

“...ah. Come to the back door in 20 minutes, and I’ll see what I can do.” Without another word he turned on his heel and disappeared into the back. The hunters looked at each other again, and Sam shrugged. Castiel wasn’t nearly as blase, but it was better than an outright no.

As Sam started the truck to pull around back they watched the Open sign in the door flip to Closed and the vet escort out a young woman holding a pet carrier. Twenty-five minutes later Dean was laying on a cold, steel examining table with the enigmatic Dr. Deaton inspecting his wounds. Sam kept one hand on Dean’s uninjured shoulder in case he came out of his drugged up state and started swinging at the unfamiliar face. Castiel shifted restlessly from one foot to another at the end of the table.

“I need to know what creature did this,” the vet stated simply as he used forceps to lift a flap of skin as he extracted debris Castiel’s rudimentary care missed.

The use of that word as opposed to “animal” told Castiel all he needed to know. “Batutut. He was bitten nearly 4 hours ago.”

“Hm.”

And that was it. The vet said nothing more, simply continued to clean out the groggy hunter’s wound.

“...and?!” Castiel demanded, his voice unnecessarily loud in the small examination room.

The doctor didn’t pause in his work, only flicked his gaze up once to slide over the ex-angel. “Batututs aren’t venomous, you should know that. Or did I err in assuming you’re hunters?”

Castiel’s face flushed an unpleasant color but a coughing fit cut off any retort he was about to make.

“No, no, you’re right. Sorry,” Sam said smoothly. “It’s...been a long day. Thank you for whatever you can do.” Ever the diplomat, Sam shot Castiel a look that clearly said **CALM DOWN** before he continued speaking to the vet. “Any worry about the blood loss?”

“It’s not enough to merit a transfusion, although it was close. And I don’t have any on hand for his species anyway,” the vet replied with sliver of a smile at his own joke as he pulled over a rolling tray on which lay suturing equipment. “But his shoulder will need rehab to recover, there’s musculature damage here. I’d recommend a minimum of 12 weeks before engaging in strenuous activity like this again, but I have a feeling that advice will be ignored.”

Well, the man clearly knew hunters if he nailed that assumption.

Castiel visibly sagged in relief, even as he kept one hand over his mouth as he turned way to cough again. 

“That doesn’t sound very good,” the vet said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Castiel responded once he finished hacking and resumed his post at the foot of the table, staring holes into Dean’s pale, still face as the doctor worked. The only noise in the room after that was the quiet tap of bits of debris being placed into a sterile pan, Dean’s occasional semi-conscious noise of discomfort, and Castiel’s pacing. 

The patchwork felt like it took ages to the ex-angel; it was certainly long enough for Dean to come around and not be at all happy when he saw someone he didn’t recognize messing with his arm. 

“Son uvva-” he slurred, immediately trying to twist away..

“Whoa whoa whoa! Cas, hold his arm,” Sam urged, clamping down on Dean’s shoulder and putting another hand on his chest. The other man immediately circled the table to take Dean’s wrist firmly and press it to the table.

“Dean, stop that!” he said in sharp, no-nonsense tone that had the hunter’s groggy gaze swinging towards him. It took Dean a few seconds to get his bearings and get with the program before he reluctantly settled down and let the doctor keep working. Regardless, Castiel kept a firm clasp on him, in case he flinched at the drag of the needle and caused further damage.

“That third Percocet was probably a bit much,” Castiel said tartly to the hunter, lips pursed in a moue of disapproval. “Be polite, Dr. Deaton is trying to help.” 

Dean’s crabby look back at him might have held more fire if he wasn’t pale as a sheet.

“Thank you, it’s much easier when you aren’t combative,” Dr. Deaton said placidly as he tied off another stitch. “Of course, I often have to muzzle my patients.”

“Y’r a vet?” Dean inquired blurrily. “Heh...course.” Green eyes swung up to look at his brother. “See if y’c’n swipe summa... them horse tranqs.” Based on his overly loud stage whisper he wasn’t fully cognizant just yet. Castiel and the younger Winchester traded amused looks. 

“Sure thing, Dean,” Sam placated his brother.

“C’n use ‘em t’ stun stuff,” Dean raised his head to nod loosely at Castiel, like now was the perfect time for a half-stoned hunting lesson.

“Of course,” Castiel replied automatically, content to let Dean ramble if it kept him complacent and still. “Like what?”

“Uhhh...shift’r...changelin’....hmm...ara...arac...th’ spider one…”

“Arachne,” he replied.

“Yup,” Dean popped his lips one that one and squeezed Castiel’s hand in approval. That was when Castiel realized he was holding Dean’s hand and not his wrist. He debated putting it down, but decided that would draw more attention to it than necessary, and he did need to keep Dean still as the doctor worked. 

“It stuns but doesn’t kill,” Castiel prompted in an effort to keep the hunter distracted. Sam quietly snorted at his brother’s state. Punchy Dean was a little funny, when he wasn’t worrying them.

“Mmhmm….k’tsune...w’rewolves OW! Hey!” he barked groggily at the vet, who’d apparently tied off the last couple of stitches hastily and tugged his skin too hard.

“All done here,” Dr. Deaton said with a brusque tone after he taped down a swath of clean gauze and snapped off his gloves. “Rehydrate him. I’d advise sports drinks with electrolytes and bed rest for a couple of days. And these.” He showed Sam a bottle of antibiotics. “They’re the same as those for humans but a lower dose. Triple it and make sure he finishes the bottle.”

“Dr. Deaton, thank you, I really mean it,” Sam said earnestly, shaking the doctor’s hand. When he attempted to pull away the vet’s grip only tightened. 

“I’m sure you do. However, I take cash rather than gratitude. Five hundred.” His previously blandly genial expression hardened minutely, and he did not hand over the antibiotics until the hunter nodded.

“I’ll hit an ATM. Think I saw one up the street. Cas, you cool to wait here?” 

The ex-angel nodded as he finally released the hunter’s hand to move to his other side and help him sit up, bracing an arm around Dean’s back. “It’s fine.” 

The hunter, for his part, managed to at least keep his head up, even if it swung a little loosely as he looked from Castiel to his brother. Sam hurried out, leaving the two banged up hunters with the vet, who unhooked the stethoscope from his neck. 

“I think you should let me listen to that cough.” It was offered in a manner that somehow didn’t sound negotiable.

“Y’sound l’ke shit…” Dean helpfully offered.

Castiel sighed mightily and relented with a sharp jerk of his head and fished a hand into his shirt to shove it up. He took a few deep inhales as the vet moved the stethoscope over his chest then his back, the last of which ended with him hacking again. It didn’t help that Dean was leaning heavily against him, face alternating between something that looked concerned and blissfully high.

“You have some fluid in your lungs,” Dr. Deaton remarked.

“Izzat bad?” the loopy hunter queried, frowning.

“That’s probably normal when you’re held underwater,” Castiel replied stonily. He very much wanted to get out of here and get Dean somewhere horizontal so he could rest comfortably. And put on a shirt because he was bare from the waist up and practically draped against the ex-angel.

The vet took that statement in stride and hung his stethoscope back around his neck. “If that cough worsens you should get it checked out.”

“Of course,” Castiel lied. It was remarkably easy to do to someone he would never see again.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ve some of my regular patients who need my attention. Leave payment on the table and exit the way you entered.”

There was something about the vet that rankled the ex-angel. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He didn’t get a sense of malevolence or even ill humor from the man; but there was something frustratingly enigmatic about him. However, he had helped Dean and for that the he was grateful. 

“Thank you. For everything. If you ever need assista-”

Dr. Deaton held up his hand, cutting off him off. “I well acquainted with the sort of assistance the Winchesters provide. I won’t be calling on you.”

Castiel’s gaze narrowed; so he knew who they were. Well, it wasn’t all that surprising, given Sam and Dean’s wide-ranging and rather infamous reputation within the hunting community. But the way he said that definitely came across as disapproving. 

When Dean muttered “W’ll scr’w you too” Castiel stifled a smile and firmed his arm around the hunter’s waist as he carefully slid him from the examining table and to his feet. 

“He means thank you also. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Dr. Deaton departed without a backwards glance as Castiel shuffled the still wobbly Winchester towards the back door. Thankfully, Sam was back in a few minutes with the payment, which he left on the exam table along with scrap of paper with one of his cell numbers on it. Castiel didn’t bother to inform him of the vet’s words. They’d wouldn’t deal with him again, so it didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting out of there.

After helping Castiel ease his brother’s noodly arms into a flannel and tucking him into the back seat, Sam slid behind the wheel once more, Castiel in the passenger seat although he turned sideways to keep an eye on the now snoring elder Winchester.

“You good?”

“We’re fine. Better once we get home,” Castiel said quietly, his eyes flickering to the back of the vet clinic as they pulled away.

Turns out, they were, in fact, not fine.

Five days later Sam had come to the conclusion that the only person on the planet who was a worse patient than his brother was Castiel. The damn ex-angel had to go and develop a wicked respiratory infection, due to inhaling dirty swamp water, then vehemently deny he was sick.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Dean barked from the war room table when he spotted the Castiel sneaking up the metal stairs to the top exit. The hunter was moodily flipping through a spellbook with his one hand, as other was bound tightly to his chest in a crossbody sling.

“I haven’t been on a r-...ru-...ru-” He was unable to get the last word out before a dry hacking fit caused him to double over.

“Saaaaam! He’s making a break for it,” Dean called, sounding for all the world like the most overgrown tattletale.

“No he’s not,” the younger Winchester replied smoothly as he entered with a bottle of pills he shook at his brother. Dean rolled his eyes while Castiel swore a level above them as he tried, and failed, to open the bolted front door of the bunker. 

“Cas, you literally can not run. You can barely get up the stairs without wheezing. You, take 2 and if you cheek them I’ll shove them down your throat,” Sam said with forced cheer to his brother. Dean made a big show of taking the antibiotics forced on him then opened wide and stuck out his tongue to prove he swallowed them. 

Castiel, at least, took his antibiotics without a fuss, although he was problematic in his own way.

“Damnit Sa-” Castiel couldn’t even get half a insult out without coughing so hard his eyes watered, but that didn’t stop him from trying to carry on like absolutely nothing was wrong. It wouldn’t have been so bad, just a little infection, except that he almost violently refused assistance and instead tried to push himself harder, as if sheer stubbornness would power him through it. 

That was how Dean found Castiel wheezing uncontrollably on the floor of the homemade gym a couple of days ago. They’d wound up taking him to urgent care, over his very loud protests, and he’d been under a hawk-like watch ever since. Merely being told he had to stay inside and rest gave him a severe case of cabin fever, when previously he might go several days without leaving the bunker and not think twice about it.

Dean alternated between grumbling about being handicapped and fussing at Castiel for doing the same. Castiel sniped back that Dean shouldn’t make Sam force feed him antibiotics and bitch at both of them when they tried to help change the dressing on his shoulder.

Sam worked hard to maintain a patient veneer with the assholes, but it was wearing thin. He’d been practically running back and forth between the two of them, every pill an argument, every request for Castiel to use his goddamn albuterol inhaler a battle. 

He was only one guy and wasn’t paid paid nearly well enough, or at all, to babysit two overgrown man-children...then stroke of inspiration occurred to him. 

Why was he doing all the work?

Sam marched up the steps two at time to pull Castiel back from where he was pointlessly fighting with the locked door. Keeping his voice low so his brother didn’t hear, he offered, “Hey, I got my hands full making lunch, could you look up some shoulder rehabilitation exercises for Dean?”

Castiel immediately ceased his struggle with the lock and coughed a few times into the crook of his elbow before he thumped somewhat resignedly back down the stairs to find his laptop. 

How a several billion year old being in the body of a forty year old could look so pouty was beyond the tall hunter.

As soon as Castiel vanished, Sam sidled over to Dean and handed him Castiel’s inhaler. “Hey, I gave Cas some research, but I’m worried he’s still gonna sneak out and give his dumb ass pneumonia. Can you stay on him while I make lunch?”

“Yeeeeah, fine,” Dean sighed like he had been assigned a burdensome chore, but he pushed away from the table, following the lovely hacking noise.

If Sam took forever making grilled cheese sandwiches that was his business. 

Forty minutes later Dean could say with 100% honesty he hadn’t intended for them to wind up in this position. But he couldn’t sit in the Lay-Z-boy because it tilted back too far and made his shoulder ache, and the only position that seemed to help the ex-angel stop coughing his lungs out was laying at an incline, so there they flopped, Castiel slumped against the arm of the sofa, kicking Dean in the thigh unconsciously everytime he shifted as he dicked around online, until the hunter muttered a curse and dropped his ankles over his lap so he’d quit fussing.

Castiel had stared at him over his computer for a long minute before slouching back down to peer at the screen as Dean channel surfed. When he landed on Deseos Prohibidos he settled in since he was four episodes behind. And he was going to completely ignore how...not bro-like this position was. But it wasn’t like they had a lot of options!

Castiel attempted to provide translation between oh so appealing coughs and not at all attractive wheezes, but Dean had spent years figuring this shit out based on who was yelling passionately at whom and dramatic camera zooms with accompanying music, so he shut him up by sticking the inhaler in his mouth the next time he opened it.

Castiel look at the device with distaste, but when he saw Dean giving him the stone cold do-not-fuck-with-me look he took his medicine with only a modicum of grumbling. He then repaid the hunter by informing him that next week, barring complications with his healing, he was going to start doing easy rehab stretches on his shoulder every day.

“What? You gonna be my therapist?” he joked.

“It’s either me or Sam, pick your-” Castiel looked almost furious that he couldn’t finish a sentence without a spasm. Either that or frustrated. Hard to tell with his face so unpleasantly scrunched up. Dean patted his shins soothingly, pointlessly, until he settled back down with a annoyed sigh. 

He could tell Castiel was exhausted, but it wasn’t like Dean could bop his forehead with two fingers and knock him out, so the hunter kept watching his Spanish soap and idly patted the ex-angel’s leg, deliberately not thinking about what he was doing because it was, after all, entirely harmless. 

His friend was sick, for the first time in his human life. Castiel was allowed to be in a bad mood, and Dean give himself permission to be a little more solicitous than he usually was when his friend was grumpy. 

Actually, he kinda respected that Castiel didn’t whine or act like he was dying, didn’t need or want someone to spoon feed him tomato rice soup or treat him like glass. Dean appreciated that toughness. Although, he was starting to see how tiresome it was if the patient was testy about following doctor’s orders.

Dean silently resolved not give Sam so much shit about his pills. He’d choke them down if it got him out of this sling and back into hunting quicker. He’d even put up with the rehab shit Castiel was talking about, because he’d seen hunters who took a too hard hit and never healed up quite right. He wasn’t anywhere near ready to hang it up and work the phones like Bobby had to when he was stuck in that wheelchair.

After a while the motion of Dean’s hand became unconsciously repetitive, his palm moving a few inches side to side as Consuela shouted shrilly at Armando, who turned around and made an impassioned, loud speech to Yuliya who slinked away to Enrique with purring rapid-fire, presumably seductive, Spanish. He loved the ridiculousness of it, plus hot people making out all over the place.

Dean glanced over at the ex-angel to find him bemusedly watching the screen, head tilted to the side as though that might better help him understand the show, before he returned his attention to his laptop. Oh well, telenovelas weren’t for everyone.

Dean had tried to get Castiel into Dr. Sexy; the ex-angel patiently sat through the cheesy dialogue, the gaping plot holes, and the unhygienic practices of the surgeons when they made out over a patient opened up on a table. Unlike Sam, he didn’t give Dean crap about his hardcore addiction to the show, nor did he tease him about his “fervent appreciation” for Dr. Sexy himself, although he did use his ridiculous finger quotes when he said that. 

Dean appreciated that Castiel indulged the hunter in one of his few healthier vices and seemed entertained by Dean’s reactions to the show, rather then the melodrama itself. Sometimes he spent more time asking Dean to explain something than watching the show itself, seemingly content to have the hunter relate it to him, with Dean’s enthusiastic commentary, of course.

It was nice to have someone to dork out a little bit with about the things he liked. It wasn’t quite the same with Sam; their eternal habit of giving each other shit and poking at one another’s sore spots was too ingrained to be easily avoided when Dean left himself open for a roast over Dr. Sexy’s cowboy boots or Sam with his Game of Thrones obsession. 

Castiel was less judgemental, more...fascinated by Dean’s own interest. He asked Dean often what exactly he liked about his telenovelas, Dr. Sexy, that ridiculous reality show with the drunk people in New Jersey. 

Dean felt the corner of his mouth lift as he recalled how Castiel sat, chin propped in his hand as the hunter explained that as stupid as all these things were they were harmless, soothing escapism. Something that allowed him, for a little while, to leave monsters and demons behind and let his brain follow along with a reality where the biggest problems were which nurses were going to fight each this week over a hot doctor, or which big-haired screeching young woman was sleeping with which overly-tanned oiled up doofus.

And it didn’t hurt a lot of the folks on Dr. Sexy were stupid hot.

Ok, so maybe Dean’s...unfortunate crush type problem wasn’t completely out of left field, given his years long obsession with this stupid tv show.

Holy shit, that time Gabriel actually sent him and Sam into the show and he saw the doctor striding towards them? 

Dean had an honest to God momentary crisis in which is it was entirely possible he either would burst into actual flames from the heat in his face or breathlessly ask Dr. Sexy if he wanted to join him in a janitorial closet. Thank fuck Sam had been there, his presence prevented Dean from doing something monumentally embarrassing either way.

Wait...why the hell was he thinking about this in the first place? This was NOT helping with the plan to ignore the whole thing.

He glanced over to find Castiel’s eyes closed, chest moving up and down slowly, inhaler on his chest and laptop balanced on his stomach. His eyes traveled from his tired face to the arm now cast above his head and dangling over the arm of the sofa. Then down to the socked feet sitting in his lap.

Yeah, this wasn’t ideal. Like, at all. 

But the hunter was loathe to move, because the ex-angel really did need the rest and he owed him. Sure, keeping score of who took care of whose injured ass was a losing game when it came to hunting, but Castiel had still done a hell of a lot for Dean when he’d been bleeding everywhere. 

Even if it hadn’t been life threatening, when all was said and done, it wasn’t a picnic and at the time neither of them had any idea just how serious his injury was. It hadn’t helped he’d overdone it on the painkillers and was incoherent for most of it. He had hazy memories of being really goddamn cold and Castiel’s face swimming in and out of his field of vision, bright blue eyes wide and concerned. 

Work roughened hands holding him upright, cradling his face when his head lolled. That low, raspy voice saying his name, saying it again...again. The solid line of Castiel’s body when Dean had slumped against him in the back seat of the truck. The strength Castiel used to keep them upright and moving when the hunter’s own legs wanted to wobble under him. The stubborn jut of his jaw when Dean blurrily tried to fight against getting medical attention.

_Okay, this is definitely **not** helping! Stop thinking about it!_

He shook his head as though if he did it hard enough these thoughts would fall right out.

Thank god Sam showed up right then with a mountain of grilled cheese. Good old Sammy with the impeccable, shitty timing.

Of course the jackass had to give Dean a very large, shit eating grin when he saw Castiel sprawled messily across the sofa, his legs over Dean’s lap.

“Comfy?”

“Oh bite me,” Dean huffed, immediately lifting his hand from the ex-angel’s shin like it burned him. “Whatever, at least he’s sleeping. You heard him coughing all hours last night.”

“Not saying a word,” Sam chuckled as he put a plate of sandwiches in front of them.

“I can hear you thinking it, dickhead,” Dean grumbled as he carefully leaned over to grab some food, clearly making an effort not to jostle the snoozing ex-angel.

“Whatever, just keep an eye on him, I gotta go out.” Sam didn’t have to, he just wanted to. Castiel wasn’t the only one suffering a little cabin fever, and Sam needed a break from babysitting. 

They were, allegedly, adults and if he left for a few hours...or days they’d survive. Probably. Only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice who I threw in there? Couldn't resist crossing fandoms.


End file.
